


The Night of the Improbability Affair

by LadyRa



Series: The Wild Wild West Affair [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E., Wild Wild West (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-30
Updated: 2005-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:41:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRa/pseuds/LadyRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loveless uses one of his new machines on Jim and Artie that thrusts them into the future.  Sequel to: The Night of the Missing Cattle Affair.  You might want to read that first so this one makes sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night of the Improbability Affair

James West hated Miguelito Loveless with a fiery passion. If he wasn't chained up, he'd have his hands around the little man's throat in a heartbeat. But his hands were cuffed, and Voltaire stood over him, watching him like a vulture. So all Jim could do was watch Loveless laugh maniacally while Antoinette played the piano in the background in counterpoint.

Artie was gone. Loveless had pushed him, bound and unconscious, through the shimmering circle that was a part of the fiendish piece of equipment the little scientist's warped mind had created.

"I call it my probability horizon," Loveless chortled, leaping up and down with glee. "Who knows where he's gone. The past, back with the dinosaurs, or into the future where the world is controlled by my inventions and I'm famous beyond imagining." 

"Bring him back," Jim said through gritted teeth.

Loveless clapped his hands. "I can't. That's the exciting part, don't you see? He could be anywhere." 

"I'm going to tear you apart," Jim threatened, meaning it to the bottom of his heart.

"Now, don't worry, my dear Mr. West," Loveless said, as if truly consoling Jim. "I'll be pushing you through, too." His eyes were gleaming. "Unfortunately, there's no way back. And based on my probability formula, you and your friend Artemus Gordon will live out the rest of your lives in completely different centuries." He let out another burst of laughter, his hand moving in a rhythmic wave to the music. "Oh, Antoinette, I like this one."

Jim wrestled with the cuffs again, desperate to be free. He hated feeling so powerless. The knowledge that Loveless was still alive because of him made his stomach churn. If he'd known he'd pay for his mercy by having Artie torn out of his life, he'd have put a bullet through the man's heart the last time their paths crossed.

He didn't want to think about where Artie might be right now, his hands bound, knocked out cold. Fury rose in him again. "You bastard," he snarled at Loveless.

Loveless sighed. "Mr. West," he tsked at Jim. "I'm afraid you're becoming a tiresome guest." He gestured at his assistant. "Voltaire? I think it's time our guest left." He pursed his lips. "I shall miss you. You've been an entertaining adversary. And in recognition of that fact, I'm willing to give you a fighting chance."

He held up the key to the cuffs. "Voltaire? Put this key in the lock. Mr. West can turn it when he arrives." Voltaire took it and did as Loveless asked, pushing it into the lock of the handcuffs but not turning it.

Jim did his best to reach for the key, to get free, but Loveless cocked his pistol and pressed it against his forehead, grinning. "You see? This is what makes you such a wonderful foil for me. You never give up. Because of you I always have to be thinking five steps ahead. You've been good for me. I shall dearly miss you." 

Jim lashed out his leg, hoping to take down the doctor, but Voltaire moved in between them and took the kick instead. It was like kicking a tree; Voltaire didn't even seem to notice. He lifted Jim up as if he were a child and carried him to the machine.

"Bye, Mr. West," Loveless said with a child-like wave. "Be sure to write." He laughed, his head thrown back in vast amusement. It was the last thing Jim saw as he was tossed into the shimmering circle.

It was cold and hard to breathe and it seemed to take forever but then Jim was thrown out of the circle into the other side. As he fell to the ground, he immediately turned the key, releasing the handcuffs and shoving them in his pocket. He found his feet, looking around to figure out where the hell he was. Hoping against hope Artie was here, too.

Buildings. Unbelievably tall buildings. He had to crane his neck to see to the top of them. It was noisy, too. He took a step toward the sound of voices and noticed how hard the surface of the ground was under his feet. That was when he saw Artie. Despite the mad doctor's predictions, Loveless' probability machine had brought them to the same place and the same time. 

Artie was on the ground, a man standing near him talking into a black object in his hand, a spiral cord stretched from one end connecting to a large yellow and black…Jim had no idea what it was. Something for transportation, perhaps. 

Jim ran to Artie, positioning himself between the man and his friend, assessing for danger. The man acknowledged him with an apprehensive glance, but turned away, still speaking. Deciding the black object wasn't a weapon, and the man, at worst, was simply insane, Jim crouched down by Artie, immediately horrified by what he was seeing.

His friend was hurt badly. His shoulder was at an unnatural angle, there was blood bubbling out of his mouth, and Jim could hear his labored breathing. Artie's hands were still cuffed behind his back, and his face looked like it had taken the brunt of his fall. 

Jim scrabbled for the key and unlocked the cuffs, sliding them off Artie. Not that Artie was conscious enough to be relieved about it; nonetheless, Jim was glad to see them off. Not that it would make any difference. Jim had seen men hurt this badly before, seen the red-tinged froth coming from their mouth and they always died. Always. 

Maybe they'd stay alive long enough for some butcher masquerading as a doctor to cut them open, muttering about internal injuries, but the outcome was the same: they died on the table in excruciating pain.

Kneeling by his friend, he cupped Artie's bruised cheek in his hand. It seemed inconceivable that this was where it would end. Jim was paralyzed with disbelief. 

"Jesus, buddy, he fucking appeared out of nowhere. I hit him with my cab. You with him? Jesus. I know I shouldn't say anything without my lawyer but Jesus. I'm sorry, man. Jesus."

Jim looked up, realized the man was talking to him. "What?" He knew the words were English, but somehow it sounded like gibberish. He understood that the man felt guilty, though, so he growled, "You did this? You killed my friend?"

The man didn't answer and his eyes looked a little wild. He said something else into the black object; it sounded like it might be an address. 

Jim paid more attention to the…cab…but it was like no hansom cab he'd ever seen. In addition to its bright yellow color with the black markings on it, it was the size of a carriage, but with nothing to pull it. He ordered the man, "Help me move him." He couldn't let Artie die in the middle of a street. He had to get him somewhere defensible and figure out what to do next.

"No, don't move him," the man contradicted. "I'm calling for help right now. Jesus. This never happened…man, he came out of nowhere. I mean it. Just, bam, there he was, and bam, I was hitting him." He gave Jim a good look. "You guys actors or something? What's with the costumes?" 

Jim glanced down at his boots, slim black trousers, white shirt, and red brocade waistcoat and compared them with what the man was wearing-- loose, faded denim dungarees and a thin, short-sleeved undershirt with the inexplicable words 'Def Leppard' on the front. The guy was speaking English but Jim hadn't seen clothes like that worn in the street anywhere in America or Europe.

Then the man was speaking again into the black gadget. "Yeah, yeah, he's hurt bad." A squawk of unintelligible sound came from the cab interior and he affected a listening pose. "Yeah, yeah, I hear it. Okay, thanks. Jesus." He leaned into an opening in the side of the vehicle and left the black object inside.

Jim turned his attention back on his partner. "Artie," he said softly, wishing he'd wake up, even though most of him was relieved Artie was dead to the world and out of pain. Hearing a high-pitched sound that grew steadily louder, Jim glanced up and saw an even larger carriage more square in shape, like an undertaker's covered wagon, screeching to a halt. The back opened up and three people jumped out. Two men and one woman all dressed in identical white shirts and dark trousers. They ran to where Artie lay, pushing Jim to the side. One of them ripped open Artie's shirt.

Jim tried to pull him away. "What the hell are you doing? Don't touch him!"

The man who owned the cab grabbed his arm. "Hey, man, they're trying to help him. Let them do their job."

Another loud sound was approaching and a carriage similar to the first one, but black-and-white in color stopped on the other side of the street. Looking down the smaller road they were currently on, Jim saw it intersected with a bigger one where dozens of these vehicles in all sorts of shapes and colors were driving at reckless speeds. 

Annoyed by being so easily distracted when Artie lay dying, Jim focused back in on the activity surrounding his friend. They had his shirt cut off and a stiff white cuff wrapped around his neck. The woman was poking something into Artie's arm that was attached to a thin tube that led to a clear container filled with fluid. One of the men was holding Artie up on his side a few inches so the other man could prod at his ribs.

He didn't like seeing people handling Artie so impersonally, but their behavior was reminiscent of the battlefield medics he had known during the War Between the States. Despite similarities with some of Loveless' torture techniques, Jim decided that the people were trying, in their own way, to help Artie. 

The man from the black-and-white carriage approached him. "You the one who hit him?"

Jim watched the new arrival warily. The man carried a gun, had a badge with a star on his chest and various other accoutrements including a truncheon around his waist. Jim guessed he was a lawman of some kind. 

"No, that was me," the first man said unhappily. "I hit him. Jesus, he came out of nowhere."

"License and registration," the second man barked.

"Yeah, yeah." The first man pulled out a wallet and opened it, removing a small rectangle. "Here. Registration's in the car." He moved to the cab, opened the door, and pressed something. A small drawer opened, and he searched within. He found a piece of paper and handed it to the second man. "Here, Officer." 

Officer. Jim let the word play in his mind. The officer took the paper and then moved over to the action around Artie, asking, "How bad is it?"

The woman looked up. "He'll be fine. A couple broken bones in his arm, dislocated shoulder, a punctured lung. Nothing to write home about."

Jim's eyes opened wide and he felt dizzy. What were they saying? That Artie would be fine? Could it be possible?

"Got a name?"

"Nope. He's not carrying anything."

"His name's Artemus Gordon," Jim informed the officer helpfully. If this was a lawman then he could be useful. Best to establish a good rapport as soon as possible.

The officer turned to him. "You know him?"

"I do. He's my friend." Lover. Soulmate.

"You saw what happened?"

Jim shook his head. "No, I came around the corner right after it happened," he lied. He didn't think volunteering information about getting shoved into the invention of a mad dwarf scientist would win him any credibility.

He saw that Artie was being lifted onto a board of some kind and carried toward the back of the wagon. He moved to go with him.

The man holding open the door to the larger square car stopped him. "Sorry, you can't ride with us."

Placing a firm hand on the man's arm and narrowing his eyes dangerously, he growled, "Try and stop me." There was no way Jim was going to allow Artie to be taken away from him.

The medic pushed his hand off and shut the door of the wagon, blocking Artie from view. "We're taking him to Mount Sinai, you can see him there."

Jim reached for his gun, but it wasn't there. Loveless had removed it. "I'm going with you," he insisted, feeling at a disadvantage without any weapon.

The medic wasn't intimidated and shrugged his shoulders. "No can do," he said kindly but firmly. He walked around to the front of the wagon and got in. Jim considered tackling him and taking Artie back, but the lawman was standing right there and besides, his instincts told him that they didn't mean Artie any harm.

The loud noise started up again and the wagon pulled away inordinately quickly. Jim ran after it, but the vehicles on the main street slowed down and stopped, allowing the wagon egress. Once at the main road, it took off far faster than Jim could ever hope to run. 

Jim stood for a moment watching the progress of the vehicle that was taking Artie away. In addition to his worry for his partner, he was suddenly aware of being utterly alone in a place more foreign than he'd ever experienced. Even China had made more sense than this.

He ran back to the other men. "Where are they taking him?" Jim questioned urgently.

Ignoring him, the first man said to the officer, "Jesus, I feel like I'm gonna have a heart attack. Are you gonna arrest me?"

The officer shook his head. "No, but I am giving you a ticket." He ripped off a piece of paper and handed it to the man.

"Reckless driving?" the man asked in a disbelieving tone. "Reckless driving? I wasn't driving recklessly, the guy practically dropped out of the sky."

Jim placed his hands on his hips and stared up at the lawman; he was several inches taller. "Officer," he interrupted, wanting to garner his attention. 

"Tell it to the judge," the officer said bluntly to the cab owner, taking no notice of Jim. 

The man let out a curse like you might hear on the Bowery, checked the front of his cab, let out another curse, then climbed into it. The whole contraption moved away, leaving nothing but the stains of Artie's blood on the ground. 

Jim started thinking that maybe this wasn't really happening. He'd just let those people take Artie away from him and done nothing. It was like one of those dreams where you try and try and try to run but you can't move. Maybe Loveless' machine made you hallucinate. Maybe he and Artie were still prisoners of the mad doctor's, twitching in a cell somewhere as Loveless played tricks on their minds. It seemed a better explanation than all of this being real.

But on the off-chance that it was real, he didn't facts. He needed to find Artie but had no idea where he was or how to get there. Could they be talking about Mount Sinai Hospital, the Jewish hospital built a couple of decades ago on Manhattan Island? Was that somewhere near? He suspected he needed one of these cars to get there but he had no idea how to find one or how to work it.

The officer approached him. "I'd like to see some ID, please. I need to get your name and address for the record."

"What?"

"Your license. Let me see it."

"My license?" 

"You been drinking, buddy?" the officer asked, narrowing his eyes.

Jim could only wish. "No."

"Then fork over your driver's license. Or a credit card, library card, whatever you got."

Driver's license. The words sounded familiar. That's what it said at the top of the little card given him three years ago by a friend from the future. For some reason Jim had always carried it with him like a good luck charm. A part of him was afraid if he left it behind it would simply vanish, Time trying to put everything to rights.

Prompted by whimsy, he reached within the waistcoat pocket where he kept it wrapped in a handkerchief. He handed it to the officer.

"Napoleon Solo?" 

Jim hesitated, but then nodded. Stupid. He'd handed over his good luck charm without thinking of the consequences. Napoleon's name. Napoleon's address. Now he was an imposter as well as a man dispossessed. He could only hope his talisman somehow worked in his favor. 

"This license has expired."

With a puzzled glance, Jim looked at the license. "Expired?"

"Yeah, ten years ago. Is this some kind of joke?"

Jim shook his head. Definitely not a joke. There was nothing remotely funny about what was going on. His blood ran cold at the words 'expired ten years ago'. That would put him in a future even farther away from his own than the time Napoleon and Illya had come from. 

"You drive a car?"

Jim shook his head again, growing more irritated with this pointless and dangerous exchange. Artie was getting farther away all the time. Still, he was better off placating the lawman, so he reined in his temper.

"All right, then," the officer said grudgingly. "As long as you don't try to drive a car with this, there's no law against carrying around an expired driver's license, but you're gonna need to get something current for identification." He frowned at the license and then looked at Jim. "Plus, you really need to get this picture updated. It hardly looks like you anymore." 

"I'll get a new one, officer. Thank you." Jim was grateful for the man's carelessness in not noticing that Jim was supposed to be a little taller and have brown eyes. 

The officer grunted. "This still your address?"

Jim nodded. The non-verbal communication protected him from revealing too much.

The officer wrote the information down and handed the license back.

"What's your phone number?"

"I don't have one," Jim said, hoping the answer would be acceptable. He didn't know what a phone was, but he knew that he didn't have the number of one. He held the license tightly in his hand, the edges pressing almost painfully into the skin of his palm.

"You live at that address and you don't have a phone?" the officer asked skeptically. "That's a pretty ritzy part of town." 

Jim shook his head. He needed to redirect the conversation before the officer grew any more suspicious. "Where did they take my friend?"

"Mount Sinai, didn't you hear the paramedic?"

Taking a chance, Jim asked, "Mount Sinai Hospital? The one by Central Park?"

The officer nodded.

"Is that far from here?"

"Couple a' miles." He frowned at Jim. "How come you don't know that if you've lived here so long?"

Wishing he could change places with Artie, so Artie could use his cleverness and acting abilities to come up with believable lies on the fly, he mumbled, "I've been away for a while."

The officer narrowed his eyes again. "It's on Fifth Avenue, which happens to be the street you live on," he said sarcastically. "How long you been gone?"

"A while," Jim said, concealing his shock. "A friend's been watching my home." The officer's question told Jim that he was indeed in Manhattan, a place he knew very well, at least back in his own time. And, amazingly, not only was he in Manhattan, but he was also near to where Napoleon lived, or used to live. 

The man glanced at an object on his wrist that looked like some sort of small pocket watch. "I'm off duty in a few minutes. I can run you up there." He headed over to the black-and-white car. 

Jim followed him, blessing the kindness of strangers and hoping he didn't ask any more questions. Too many other odd answers and Jim was afraid he'd find himself in a jail cell.

The officer opened up one of the doors to the car. Jim fumbled with the door next to it, trying to figure out what the man had done to open it. 

"Nah, you can ride in front," the officer said. The man got in and reached across the car, pulling a black knob up. Jim moved around the car to the indicated door, pulled out a lever that was the only thing visible on the outside and when the door swung open, slid inside.

"It's a little stiff, you really gotta yank it shut," the officer cautioned.

Jim wasn't sure what he was talking about, but he followed the man's eyes to the door. He took a look at it, saw something that appeared to be a handle and pulled it toward him hard. It slammed shut, closing him into the small space. He found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. 

The officer put a small metal object into a slot and turned it. There was a grinding sound and the hum of an engine, similar to the one on the train. Then he moved a metal stick into a different position and, after a movement of his right foot, the car sprang forward. Jim held onto the door with tightened fingers. It was like riding in a carriage but without the horses. It felt un-natural. He distrusted the whole experience, but since it was supposedly taking him to Artie, he gritted his teeth and went along.

The car pulled out onto the main street and Jim got his first good look at the city he was in. More buildings. It boggled the mind. He'd thought the New York of his time was a large city, but it was nothing compared to this. It was crowded. Too many people, too many cars, too many buildings. No wonder Napoleon and Illya had looked at Jim’s and Artie’s version of a city with such amazement. It must have seemed like a ghost town compared to this.

They turned onto Fifth Avenue and Jim looked around curiously. He'd ridden his horse down this street many a time. Most of the buildings were big and ugly, but now and then he would see the façade of something that looked vaguely familiar. 

What were the odds that he and Artie had landed in the one possible future where they might have someone they could count on for help? Loveless would be gnashing his teeth if he knew.

"Hey," the officer said, interrupting his silent reverie. "What's with the outfits?"

Remembering what the other man had said, Jim answered, "Actors."

"They shooting something around here?"

"Shooting something?" Jim asked, hoping to solicit more information so he could come up with a plausible answer. He didn't have a gun and didn't know what shooting would have to do with actors anyway.

"Yeah, you know, a movie." He gestured at Jim's outfit. "What's the name of the movie? The director anyone good? Any big stars in it?"

"Theatre," Jim managed to say. "Stage production."

The officer looked disappointed and lost all interest. The rest of the journey continued in silence. The car stopped in front of a huge building that bore little resemblance to the Jewish hospital he knew. "This is it."

Jim stared out the window. "Here?"

"Yeah. Just find the lobby. They'll tell you where your buddy is." He glanced at his timepiece again. "Gotta go. Gotta get this report in and clock out."

It took a few seconds, but Jim managed to get the door open. "Thank you, Officer," he said courteously, glad to have gotten what he needed without giving himself away.

The officer nodded. "Get that license renewed. I hope your friend is all right. And if this case goes to court, someone might contact you to be a witness."

"All right," Jim said, as he shut the door and then watched the black-and-white car drive off. He'd cross that bridge when he came to it; being a witness in a court case was nothing new. Turning to the huge building, Jim started reading the signs, looking for something that indicated a lobby. Artie was in there somewhere and Jim would keep looking until he found him.

* * *

Jennifer, secretary to the big boss, looked up as the head of U.N.C.L.E. security approached her.

"Is the old man in?" he asked.

She gave him a scolding look. "You know he hates it when you say that."

"Why do you think I say it?" he answered with a sly grin.

She let out a soft laugh. "Yes, he's in."

As usual, he let himself in. No need to stand on ceremony. 

"Old man?" Napoleon said with a sneer.

Illya grinned at him. "Why fight old habits?" Not that Napoleon looked old. At forty-four he was still in his prime, only the graying at his temples revealing his age. "We both called Waverly 'old man'."

"He was old," Napoleon protested. "And we never said it to his face."

"I didn't say it to your face; I said it to your secretary. I can't help it if you eavesdrop." He moved closer to Napoleon and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. "Besides, I happen to be quite partial to this particular old man."

Napoleon glanced quickly around the room. "Are you sure the cameras are off?"

Illya held up a small remote control device in his hands. "They're off."

"Good." Napoleon grabbed Illya and pulled him down on his lap. 

"Oof." Illya said, even as he allowed Napoleon to demonstrate just how talented he was, at least in the kissing and groping arena. When things started to get heated, Illya pulled back. They'd christened the conference table twice this year already. No need to do it again. He might only be forty-one but his body didn't appreciate making love on a cold hard table as much as it used to.

Napoleon, however, followed his lips, capturing them again. In between kisses, Illya asked, "Did you…" kiss, "see…" kiss, "an accident today?"

Illya could almost watch his words slowly seep into Napoleon's mind because, in the middle of their next kiss, Napoleon frowned and pulled back. "I assume you're not talking about what they were offering for lunch in the cafeteria?"

"No, I'm not talking about that. Although that was a crime against man and nature. Can't you do something about that, or is your title only an honorific?"

"Ha ha. I dare you to take on the head of food services."

Illya shuddered. "I'd rather take on a THRUSH satrap."

"Exactly." With a sigh, he pushed Illya off his lap. Illya shifted to lean against the conference table. "You know I didn't leave the premises today," Napoleon whined. "If I had, one of your moles would have ratted me out and you'd have been on me like white on rice, probably before I hit the sidewalk."

With a tight smile of satisfaction, Illya said, "That's how it should be. You are not allowed out without security. You're a danger to others."

"And again I say: ha ha. So what accident are you talking about?"

"According to a police report, you were listed as a witness to an accident earlier today."

"Why did it have my name on it?"

"I don't know," Illya groused.

"Remind me why I pay you so much to be head of security?"

Illya ignored him. "It also had your address."

Napoleon scowled. "My real address or one of my fake addresses?"

"Your real address." When he had become head of security for U.N.C.L.E. Illya had tried, repeatedly and spectacularly unsuccessfully, to get Napoleon to move. As head of U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon was an even more attractive target than he'd already been.

But Napoleon liked his penthouse apartment and refused to move. 

So Illya had started a huge misinformation campaign. He'd pretended to have Napoleon move, had set up fake homes and addresses for him all over the city and the country, even a few scattered around the globe. They'd all been hit by assassins at one time or another, and all of them had been apprehended as they'd found Illya's people waiting for them as opposed to their intended target.

Meanwhile, Napoleon had continued to happily live in his penthouse. Illya had purchased the floor below him and then created access between the two, so under the guise of providing security for U.N.C.L.E.'s Number One, Illya and Napoleon happily slept together every night in their two-story penthouse.

Getting Napoleon in and out of his penthouse every day without being seen kept Illya's covert skills intact. Plus it was fun.

"My real address is sitting in some police report?" Napoleon asked with some pique. "Did you manage to pull it?"

"Of course." Illya reached behind him for a file and handed it to Napoleon. All records of the report had been erased.

"How long did they have it?"

"Forty-five minutes."

Napoleon's eyebrows went up. "That was fast work."

Illya scowled. "No, it took too long. Unfortunately it sat on someone's desk for thirty minutes before they put it into the computer."

"So it was on a computer for fifteen minutes?"

Illya nodded, disgusted. A minute was too long.

Napoleon flipped open the file and noted the address of the supposed accident. "I wasn't there. I was here."

"I know." Illya read it over his shoulder. "Do you know the cop?"

Napoleon shook his head. "No. Nor the guy who caused the accident." He squinted. "I can't even read who the victim was. Can you? This cop has terrible handwriting."

"The last name is Gordon. First name begins with an A."

"Artie? Arthur?"

Illya's eyes opened wide. "Artemus?"

"Yeah, maybe." Napoleon didn't look convinced. "Funny, I was just thinking about them today. Quite a coincidence. It's not the most common name." 

"Do you think it's another double of you?"

Napoleon winced. "God, I hope not. They never get the hair right, and they never dress them well enough. I swear the last one was wearing a suit from Sears."

"Oh, the horror," Illya said sarcastically. "I'm surprised you ever recovered from the trauma."

"Scoff all you want, but I have a reputation to maintain."

"Yes, of vanity and conspicuous overconsumption."

"Says he of the leather bomber jackets and silk pajamas." Napoleon looked more closely at the file. "He wrote that the license expired ten years ago. Why would someone go to all the trouble of creating a double for me and then botch it all by getting the date wrong on a license? What kind of amateur was this?"

From the look on Napoleon's face, Illya guessed that Napoleon was more affronted that someone did a slipshod business of imitating him, than the fact that someone was imitating him. God forbid if the man was wearing sneakers. 

"And what's the point of pretending to be me," Napoleon continued to gripe, "when he already obviously knew where I lived? And why get involved in an accident scene? I don't get it."

"Perhaps it is an elaborate scheme to get you to leave headquarters."

"Stupid scheme." Napoleon stared at the report and pursed his lips. "Although it's working. Where did they take the guy who got hurt?"

"Mount Sinai." 

"Let's go see him."

"I can go see him, Napoleon. You can stay here."

"Right, because we know once you leave, I'll stay here like a good boy and won't even think about trying to sneak out to follow you."

Illya sighed. "You don't pay me enough, Napoleon, for how casually you take your safety."

Napoleon pulled him down until Illya was straddling his legs. "But there are some excellent fringe benefits," he argued.

Illya could hardly argue with that. He nuzzled Napoleon's neck, loving the scent of his lover combined with his aftershave. Nothing smelled as good to Illya. "Maybe we should go home early today."

"This boss of yours must be a real gem to let you get away with being such a slacker," Napoleon said as he kissed along Illya's jaw.

Illya had a very sudden and disconcerting thought. "You gave Jim your license."

"What?" Napoleon said, still nibbling.

"You gave Jim your license."

"Jim who?" 

"James West. Remember him? The other half of Artemus Gordon?"

Napoleon leaned back, frowning. "Oh, that James West," he said snidely. "For a moment I thought you were talking about the Jim from the eleventh century. I get them confused."

"You gave him your license. A license that would now be expired."

"True. But, we also left them back in 1872, and somehow I find it hard to believe that they managed to build a time machine and decided to visit 1980 on a whim. Especially when they had first hand knowledge of how wrong playing with time can go."

That was true enough. "But it could be them." Illya had no idea why he was persisting. The whole idea was ridiculous. Although it was odd that he, also, had been thinking of both men earlier today.

"Yeah," Napoleon agreed, cheerily lying, "and it could be Arthur Gordon and his trusty sidekick King Henry the Eighth."

Illya shrugged.

Napoleon stared at him. "Illya. Even if it was them, which it isn't, why would Jim still have my license? Why would he give it to the police officer? Why pretend to be me? There's no law against being named James West." He shoved Illya to his feet. 

"Give me another scenario that fits the facts as well."

"You mean one that isn't insane?"

Illya encouraged him with a challenging wave. "I'm waiting."

Napoleon pursed his lips, tapping his bottom one with a knuckled fist, eyes narrowed at Illya as if trying to decide if he should call security to have him put in a straitjacket. Not that they'd do it, Illya thought smugly. His employees were far more frightened of him than they'd ever been of Napoleon.

"Okay, how about this one?" Napoleon offered. "Someone bought my license in some wacky garage sale that had Jim's stuff, and somehow it's made its way down through the decades until today."

"Yes, that's very believable."

"Okay, someone saw my name somewhere, thought it was regal sounding, and made themselves a shoddy fake ID proclaiming them to be of age so they could drink. When the cop asked them for an ID, they used the fake one to keep out of trouble."

Illya scowled. "All right. That one I could believe." He was disappointed. He didn't want to find a reasonable excuse for the events of the day. He, as impossible as it might be, wanted it to be Artie and Jim.

Napoleon stood and shrugged into his suit jacket. "Let's go see this guy, see if there's anything to be worried about."

"It would be easier if I went on my own," Illya futilely protested.

"But nowhere near as entertaining." 

Illya let out a sigh, but headed for the door. Truthfully, he'd rather have Napoleon go with him. He felt better when Napoleon was within view.

As they left the office, Napoleon said to his secretary, "I'm leaving for a while. I'll be with you-know-who."

She blinked at him in surprise, but then nodded. Illya didn't expect a fight. He was the only one who argued with the boss. Besides, everyone knew he was Napoleon's bodyguard. "Come on, old man," he quipped at his lover.

Napoleon scowled at him. "You'll pay for that later," he threatened under his breath.

"Good," Illya said with a grin. "I'm counting on it." 

* * *

Jim paced the length of the waiting room, but then forced himself to sit down. Artie was out of surgery and in a place they called the recovery room. It would be at least an hour until Jim could see him. According to the doctor, he was fine and was expected to make a complete recovery.

Jim could hardly believe it. He wouldn't believe it until he saw Artie open his eyes and smile at him.

One of the nurses had attempted to help Jim contact his friend by looking up Napoleon's telephone number but it wasn't…what had she said…listed? Something like that. The thought of using numbers to talk to someone sounded like magic or make believe, anyway. Jim gave some thought to walking down Fifth Avenue until he found Napoleon's home, but he couldn't leave Artie.

When he'd arrived at the hospital, they'd asked him confusing questions that Jim had finally decided were about money. They wanted to know who was going to pay for Artie's care. When Jim said he'd pay for it, they'd wanted a card of some sort which, needless to say, Jim didn't have. The person at the desk had finally given up and told him in a fairly frigid tone to take a seat in the waiting room. Jim had been more than happy to obey. 

Once seated, he began to peruse the literature lying around and ascertained that it was 1980. It wasn't clear what month it was. Each piece of literature seemed to claim a different one. Stunned, he sat there for a long time, letting the date settle. 1980. One hundred-and-twenty-five years into the future. 

In time, the needs of his body began to demand attention. His bladder was about to burst when he saw a small child grabbing his crotch, clearly in the same condition. He followed the boy, accompanied by his mother, to a room with the word Women on it. Directly next to it was one that said Men. The future version of Ladies and Gents. 

Once inside, it wasn't too hard to figure everything out. He couldn't wait for Artie to see the way hot water came out of the pipes so freely and the clarity of the mirrors. The towels felt harsh and fell apart easily, but he still managed to clean up a little from his time under Loveless' less-than-tender mercies.

Back in the waiting room, Jim helped himself to a cup of coffee. When his stomach growled, he roamed a little and found a doctor's lounge that had a large selection of, apparently, free food. Waiting until no one was around, he went in and helped himself to a sandwich and a small bag of something called Cheetos. When he was done eating, he wiped his orange colored fingers on his pants, and then went back to the waiting room and sat down.

There was a box in the waiting room that talked and had moving pictures on it. A show called Family Feud was on and it made absolutely no sense. Nor could he figure out where the picture was coming from. Jim wished Artie were with him; he'd figure out how it worked. 

A longing for his friend shot through him. He wanted Artie to walk through the door with a laugh about all the fuss. Or maybe Napoleon and Illya could just appear. Jim was desperate for a friendly face.

"Jim?"

Blinking, Jim stared as Napoleon and Illya walked into the waiting room. It was as though the wish had conjured them up. They were older. Still in great shape, but quite a few years must have passed since Jim had seen them last. But other than a fully recovered Artie, they were the best thing he could have seen. He stammered out their names. "Napoleon. Illya."

They were looking as flummoxed as he'd ever seen them. Even more than when they realized they'd ended up back in his time of 1872.

Napoleon sank down next to him. "What…why…how…?"

Illya rolled his eyes, rallying a little. "What Napoleon's trying to ask so eruditely is how did you get here? The last time we saw you it was…" he leaned in and whispered, "1872, and it's been fourteen years since then."

"Fourteen? It's been three for us." 

"Before you try to explain," Napoleon interrupted. "How's Artie?"

"The doctor said he was all right. He has a broken arm, a dislocated shoulder, and something called a pneumo…" He shook his head, not remembering the full word. "I didn't understand a lot of what he said," he confessed. He didn't appreciate feeling like a fish out of water. 

"Pneumothorax?" Illya guessed kindly. 

Jim nodded. 

"No reason you should understand, Jim," Napoleon said. "Life's gotten exceedingly more complicated in the last hundred years."

Jim gazed at the two men. "I can't believe you're here. That you found me. That _I'm_ here. I never thought I'd see you again." He was like a babbling brook.

Illya sat on his other side. "Us, too. Although, oddly, we were both thinking of you today."

Jim couldn't get over it. They really were there. Even though he wasn't the sort to rely on much of anybody except Artie, these two men were the exception. They would help him and Artie navigate their way through this time and, hopefully, back home. He closed his eyes and sagged back in the chair, just now feeling how tightly he'd been fighting for control. "How did you find us?"

"Police report," Illya said. "I have Napoleon's name flagged so I'm instantly notified if his name goes on a computer." At Jim's confused look, Illya made a dismissive motion with his hand. "I'll explain later. So he's all right?"

Jim nodded. "And so am I, now that you're here." All he wanted to do was take a nap. It had been well over thirty-six hours since he'd last closed his eyes.

"Have you eaten anything?" Napoleon asked.

Jim nodded. "Doctor's lounge."

"Is Artie still in surgery?"

Jim shook his head. "No, he's in…" What he now knew to be a phone, setting on the desk by the door, rang, interrupting him.

Illya got up and answered it. "Yes?" There was a pause. "He is, hold on." Illya held out the phone, mimicking how to hold it as Jim took it.

Holding it to his ear, Jim followed Illya's lead. "Yes?"  


" _Your friend is in his room now, Room 417. You can go see him, if you want_."

Confused by the disembodied voice, but relieved by what it was saying, Jim nodded. He held up the phone. "It says he's in Room 417. Do you know where that is?"

Napoleon and Illya nodded so Jim thanked the voice and handed the phone back to Illya who put it down on the machine's base. Taking his elbow, Napoleon directed him out of the waiting room. Jim decided he must look as bad as he felt. 

"When's the last time you slept?" Napoleon asked, confirming Jim's last thought.

"A long time." 

"We'll go see Artie, then take you home for a few hours to sleep."

Jim didn't want to leave.

Illya must have seen it on his face. "I know you don't want to leave, but Artie will be safe here, and I'm guessing he'll take one look at you and order you to get some sleep."

That was probably true. 

They were standing in a hallway and Napoleon pushed a small button with an arrow pointing up. "What's this?" Jim asked.

"An elevator. The twentieth-century version."

There was a ding and the doors opened up. Several people got out and once it was empty Napoleon prodded Jim in, followed by Illya. "Is it safe?" Jim asked as the doors shut, sealing them in. Every elevator he'd ever been in had been open so you could watch your ascent or descent. This was unnerving. He saw a row of numbers, watched as first the two and then the three, followed by the four, lit up. The numbers went up to eight. 

"It is," Illya assured him. 

The elevator came to a smooth stop and the doors opened. Napoleon, again with his hand at Jim's elbow, escorted him out. Signs were read and Illya led them down the hallway to the left. As the numbers neared 417, Jim moved quicker, anxious to see Artie with his own eyes.

He found the room and entered. There were two beds in the room, but only one was occupied. Artie lay on it and Jim was next to him in seconds. "Artie. Artie."

Artie's eyebrows went up as if trying his best to get his eyes opened but finding it required more energy than he had at his disposal. Finally they opened a crack. "J'm," he eeked out.

"Yeah, Artie," Jim said, his own voice sounding a little shaky. "Yeah, it's me."

Artie smiled crookedly at him. Then his eyes shifted to behind Jim and they widened. He looked back at Jim. "Am I dead?"

Jim let out a quick laugh. "No. Loveless' machine threw us into the future. He'd be beside himself if he knew we actually had friends here." He gently squeezed Artie's hand. "They found me. Us."

Artie squeezed back. "What happened to me?" The words were clear but drowsy.

"You got hit by a car. Kind of a horseless carriage," Jim explained. "I thought you were dead." His grip tightened on Artie’s hand, fighting to lose the memory of Artie bleeding, dying.

"Am I hurt bad?"

Jim shook his head. "The doctor says you'll be fine. You broke a couple of bones and did something to your lungs, but you'll be okay. You just need to heal." Now that he'd spent some time drinking in Artie's bruised face, Jim started paying attention to all the gadgets around his lover's body. "What is all this, Napoleon? What is it for?"

Napoleon started explaining. "These are IV pumps. They're pumping these fluids into Artie's veins." He moved a little closer, inspecting the bags. "This one is blood," he said, touching the first one. Touching a second, he said, "This one is a normal saline solution, used to help replace fluids. And this one," he added, touching the third one, "is an antibiotic to make sure he doesn't get any infections."

Jim remembered that word. Remembered not having any available back in 1872 when Illya's infection was slowly killing him.

Napoleon moved on. "This is a chest tube." He showed Jim the thick tube coming out from Artie's side. "It's draining out blood and helps keep the lung inflated while it's healing." He kept moving. "This is a urine bag; it's connected to a catheter that is in his penis. It catches all his urine so they can measure how much he's making."

Jim frowned. "Why do they do that?" It made him want to grab himself, not liking the idea of something that big going there.

"Torture," Illya said, with an air of someone who knew exactly what it felt like.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "It's not torture. They're putting so many fluids in, they like to keep track of what's coming out. Too much extra fluid can be a bad thing. Plus it keeps Artie from having to use a bathroom right now when moving is hard for him."

That made sense. It didn't keep Jim from flinching at the thought, however.

Artie followed the explanation with dazed but attentive eyes.

"And this is a cast." Napoleon gestured at the white hard casing around Artie's arm. "Illya and I have had all this stuff in us or on us during our career."

Illya scowled. "And worse."

For some reason that made Jim feel better. Badly for them, but better for Artie. "So he really will recover," he stated with certainty.

Napoleon nodded. "He'll be all right. They'll keep him here for a few days and then we'll take him home. That cast will be on him for several weeks, and he'll be miserable because they itch and they're cumbersome but once it comes off, he'll be good as new."

Artie had worn a cast before, so at least that much was familiar. "You hear that, Artie?" Jim asked, squeezing his hand again. "You'll be just fine."

Artie nodded wearily. "You look terrible. Go get some sleep."

Illya grinned. He gestured at Artie. "Say goodbye while I make sure this room stays a private room. I'm also going to have someone from U.N.C.L.E. security come and watch Artie while we're gone."

Jim frowned. "Do you think he's in danger?"

Shaking his head, Illya pulled out a gadget that looked like a pen. "No, I do not," he answered him. "But I'll feel better about it, and I suspect you will, too." 

Jim would feel better. Much better. He wasn't sure he'd have left otherwise. Overwhelmed by weariness, his bruises, his fear, and now his gratitude, Jim dropped his head onto Artie's hand.

Artie freed his hand from Jim’s hold and caressed Jim's hair. "Go get some sleep, James. Let Napoleon and Illya spoil you a little. I promise I'll be right here."

Jim wanted to go to sleep right then, with Artie's hand on his head, his voice soothing his fractured thoughts. He wanted to be home on their train, stripping each other's clothes off, tripping over boots in their haste to make it to their bed. 

He had to admit, though, the thought of getting clean and lying down on a soft bed with a pillow and a blanket sounded like heaven. Just another minute and he'd get up.

A hand shook his shoulder. "Come on, Jim, time to go."

He lifted his head, blinking, narrowing his eyes at the light. "What?"

Napoleon grinned kindly at him. "You took a little nap. Figured we'd leave you be until we got everything taken care of." He gestured at a man who hadn't been there before. "This is Jerry. He'll be staying with Artie until we get back. Illya made sure no one else will use this room, and U.N.C.L.E.'s taking care of the bill. The hospital has Illya's phone number so they can call us if anything should happen. Which it won't."

Jim sized up Jerry to see if he trusted the man to protect his partner. The agent looked soft, but if Napoleon felt he was capable then Jim would have to take his word for it. He looked at Artie to find him fast asleep.

"They just gave him some drugs to help with the pain," Illya said. "He should sleep for several hours."

That made it easier to get up, although Jim's body protested the movement. He nodded at Jerry, almost sorry he was there because it kept him from leaning over and kissing Artie. Then, he decided to do it anyway. He leaned down, whispered, "I love you," and kissed him gently on the forehead.

He shot a defiant look toward Jerry only to find he wasn't paying any attention, too busy getting his marching orders from Illya. With one last look at Artie, Jim let Napoleon and Illya push him out of the room.

* * *

When they got to Illya's car, Napoleon opened the back door. Sweeping his arm out in a grand gesture, he invited Jim into the back seat. "Take a nap," Napoleon encouraged. "This might take a while."

"I thought you lived on this street," Jim countered.

"I do, but we try not to let anyone else know it," Napoleon said.

"Napoleon is the number two target of THRUSH this week," Illya crowed.

Scowling at his lover, Napoleon said, "Enjoy it while it lasts. I'll be number one next week." He and Illya had occupied the number one and number two positions on THRUSH's Most-Wanted-Captured-Alive-But-If-Necessary-Dead list for years now. Sometimes he topped the list. Sometimes Illya did. Actually Illya did more than Napoleon.  
  
Napoleon found it insulting. He should be their number one target. Just because Illya was one of the most, if not _the_ most, lethal agents in the world, with a mind like a steel trap, privy to all of U.N.C.L.E.'s secrets, and access to Napoleon Solo, didn't excuse the inexcusable. 

And the fact that Illya always mocked him about it just made it worse.

Jim's confused look prompted an explanation out of Napoleon, although he first took a few seconds to explain seat belts to Jim. Considering the way Illya drove, it was a requirement. "We will have a tail." He waited a moment to make sure Jim understood the idiom. When Jim nodded, he continued. "We always have a tail. Illya will need to shake them and sometimes it takes a while." Sometimes it didn't. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the quality of THRUSH agents watching them. 

Sometimes they were laughable. Sometimes Napoleon was tempted to stop and recruit the good ones to U.N.C.L.E.. Illya had once. A very persistent THRUSH agent had stuck with them for five hours, had managed to convince Illya he'd lost him and then shown up outside the elevator when they reached the penthouse. Illya had hired him on the spot for twice the money THRUSH was paying him.

He was one of their better Section Two agents. The fact that it drove THRUSH crazy made it well worth his salary.

"Illya has one hundred and thirteen ways to get us home. Some of them can also take some time."

"One hundred and fourteen. I thought of another one this morning." 

Napoleon grinned but then waved at Illya with a how's-a-man-supposed-to-get-home-on-a-timely-basis-with-someone-like-you-around-so-get-to-it kind of flourish. When Illya was in super-duper spy mode, it sometimes felt like Napoleon would get home only to find Illya already scheming on how to get him back to work. 

On occasion, Napoleon thought it was payback for insisting on staying at the penthouse. Illya took revenge very seriously and nursed a grudge like a professional wet-nurse. 

Every day, Napoleon loved him more and knew he couldn't do his job one tenth as well without Illya watching his back.

He gazed fondly at his partner, then turned to speak with Jim again only to find that he'd taken his advice and was sound asleep. Napoleon took a moment to stare at him. "How did they get here?" he asked Illya softly.

"He said something about Loveless. I remember hearing that name when we were back in their time."

Napoleon remembered the name as well. He was tempted to wake Jim up and get some answers. "What happens if they can't get home? What happens if they don't do something they needed to do before they die?"

Illya shook his head. "I don't know. We saw how relentless Time was to us. At least we know the same thing can't happen to them because dying will only make the effects of their time travel permanent."

Napoleon considered his partner, remembering how helpless he'd felt as Illya was dying, both from the cougar attack and the ravages of trying to exist in a time not their own.

"Napoleon!" Illya suddenly said excitedly.

Glancing around for danger but seeing none, Napoleon furrowed his brow. "What?"

"The letter. The letter Artie and Jim sent us right after we got home from their time. We know they got home. They wrote us that letter after they retired."

Napoleon's jaw dropped open, but then he frowned. "Why didn't they tell us about seeing us again in the letter?"

Illya shrugged. "Probably to make sure they didn't influence the future. Telling us might have made us turn left when we should have turned right at some point. If things changed, we might not have been here when they arrived, and they might not have made it home."

Napoleon rubbed his eyes. Time paradoxes made him nuts. "You see the tail? Green sedan?"

Illya nodded. "There're two of them. Blue Volkswagen behind them."

Napoleon let out a disparaging sound. No self-respecting spy should be using a Volkswagen, especially in that shade of blue. 

"Hold on."

Napoleon held on. He'd learned the hard way what happened when he didn't.

Illya made a sharp right and then a left, raced through an intersection, and then made another right. Napoleon checked on Jim to make sure he didn't get whiplash. Then he glanced out the rear window. "Nothing so far."

Making another series of turns, Napoleon saw that Illya was almost back where he'd started from. "There's one," Napoleon called out, seeing the green sedan one street over to the right, driving slowly, looking for their car. 

Illya drove forward, out of his line of sight. "Any sign of the Volkswagen?"

Napoleon shook his head, then pointed. "Up ahead about two blocks. See him?"

Illya took a left at the next intersection. It gave him easy access to Broadway, which he turned onto and then accelerated to a healthy speed. Napoleon watched for the next five minutes but couldn't find any signs of a tail. "Amateurs tonight."

"A five-year-old would have done better," Illya sneered.

"Might have had trouble reaching the pedals, though." 

"Child's play."

For a five-year-old Illya maybe. At six he'd probably been making mustard gas bombs in his basement. 

"Dare I hope, now that we've lost our tail, that we'll be heading home by a fairly direct route?" Napoleon asked wistfully.

"I believe we shall park at the bakery," Illya said.

Napoleon grinned. He liked that plan. Illya knew the back exits and subsequent alleys better than the back of his hand. The bakery was only two blocks from the penthouse and had the added advantage of allowing Napoleon to pick up a favorite dessert for after dinner.

* * *

"Jim, wake up."

Jim grunted and tried to turn over only to realize that he couldn't. He was tied down. His eyes opened in a flash, expecting to find Loveless laughing over him, but instead he found Napoleon. His memory flooded back. "We here?" he croaked out. He cleared his throat.

"Sort of," Napoleon answered with a grin. "We're using plan number 19 to get home which, fortunately, involves purchasing something sweet to eat. So, get out and come see the twentieth-century version of a pastry shop."

Jim moved too quickly and bit back a moan; he hurt all over. He wasn't sure if it was the beating one of Loveless' thugs had treated him to, the forced landing when he'd ended up here in 1980, or just some sort of physical reaction to being forced one hundred years into the future. Whatever it was, he felt one hundred years older.

He forced himself to move. Once he got outside the car, his nose perked right up. Something smelled wonderful.

Illya held up a gadget and pushed a series of numbers. The car beeped back at him and the lights flashed. He put the gadget in his pocket. "It alarms the car. I'll know if anyone's touched it. It helps to keep us from being blown up."

With that, Illya headed toward the source of the wonderful smell. 

Jim caught Napoleon's eye. "Do people try to blow you up regularly?" If so, it would be something they shared. Nice to know not everything was different in the future.

"Either they're trying to blow us up, or we're trying to blow them up. Illya's easy either way. He's just as happy making a bomb as he is defusing one." Napoleon gestured for Jim to follow Illya.

Jim was glad to obey. Even though he'd eaten lunch, that smell made his stomach grumble in anticipation. They entered a small shop and Jim's eyes widened at the wide variety of items for sale.

"Get anything you want," Napoleon offered grandly. He was already strolling down the length of the display. Illya seemed to know exactly what he wanted, as he was talking with the clerk, pointing. The young woman was assembling a pink box and withdrawing items from the display case at Illya's direction.

Jim moved behind Napoleon and peered through the glass, reading the placards. Some of them he recognized. Curious as to whether they'd taste the same now, or if the ingredients had slowly changed over time, he chose a fruit cobbler and a slice of Boston crème pie. He ordered some ladyfingers for Artie, one of his favorites.

When Napoleon paid for it with some paper, Jim began to realize that he was like a baby in this century. Economics, politics, communications, medicine, weaponry. He didn't know any of it. Ignorance was dangerous. Assuming Napoleon and Illya were willing, he'd start learning tonight. Hopefully, he and Artie wouldn't be here long, but Jim felt like a sitting duck the way he was now.

They went out the back door of the bakery, ending up in a long convoluted hallway, the light being provided by…he pointed up. "What are those?" They'd been all over the hospital, but with everything else going on, he'd forgotten to ask.

"Light bulbs," Illya provided. "Electricity. It's passed through a filament that acts as a resistant conductor."

Artie had been working with electricity. Obviously he'd been on the right track.

They passed one door that said Exit, and another that looked like a bathroom for both men and women. Eventually they came to another door that had a red light blinking and a box with numbers attached to the door knob. Illya pressed a sequence of numbers and the door unlocked. Napoleon withdrew his gun and cautiously opened the door.

Jim wished he was armed. As if Illya had read his mind, he handed Jim a dangerous looking knife. Jim had no idea where Illya had been hiding that. It wasn't a gun, but it felt good to have a weapon. He flashed Illya a tight smile.

Illya went through the door first. They ended up in a room filled with empty shelves. It looked like an abandoned storage room. There were two other doors, one on the opposite wall, and one on the left. Both had the same sort of lock. Illya moved to the left, pressed numbers again, and opened the door. Meanwhile, Napoleon locked up behind them.

This door led to some stairs. As they proceeded down, Illya locked up behind them. "We're under the street now," Illya explained, pointing up.

Jim could hear the cars. "You go through this every night?" he asked, amazed.

"And every morning," Napoleon said with a sigh. "Illya takes his job as bodyguard a little too much to heart."

Illya sent him a narrow-eyed stare.

"What?" Napoleon asked innocently.

Illya snorted, but then headed resolutely down the under-street corridor.

"I have requested that Napoleon move into a more secure location but he refuses. This is his own fault," Illya said sternly. "Too many people have access to the building." They arrived at another door, which Illya unlocked, bringing them to another room and another door until finally they were facing another set of elevators.

"There will be a bomb," Illya announced morosely.

Napoleon clapped him on the shoulder. "Christmas has come early for you, then," he said cheerfully.

"Stay back until I find it."

"There really is a bomb?" Jim asked, eyebrows lifted skeptically.

"Probably. Illya's got a sixth sense about explosives. And when you used my license our address got made public. It wasn't for long because Illya's network of security agents pulled it quickly, but I'm sure someone unfriendly got a hold of it."

Jim winced. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Napoleon assured him. "It happens every now and then." He pointed at the elevator that had just arrived in response to Illya's pushing the button. "People do have access to the building, but they can't actually touch our home, so if they want to try to take us out, they have to use the common areas."

Illya entered the elevator and pushed something to make the door stay open. Jim moved closer to the opening so he could see what Illya was doing. He watched as Illya sprayed something over the buttons that chose the destination. The "P" button turned purple. "Is the bomb hooked up to blow when you push the "P"?" Jim asked.

Illya nodded. He glanced up at the vent. "Napoleon, give me a hand."

Napoleon entered the elevator and made a stirrup out of his hands. When Illya had his foot firmly planted, he hoisted him up. Illya pushed out the vent and poked his head through the opening. "Got it." Napoleon gave him another boost and Illya pulled himself up and out of the elevator car.

Napoleon sat on the padded bench outside the elevator, wiped his hands off with a handkerchief, and opened one of the pink boxes, breaking off a piece of a dessert. He handed half to Jim. "Éclair," he said as way of explanation.

Jim sat down next to him, taking a bite. It was good. Very good. He listened to Illya tinker, every now and then letting out some expletive in one language or another. 

"You almost done?" Napoleon called out. "I'm hungry."

"Atebis'," came the terse reply.

Napoleon grinned. "Ooh, he said a bad word."

"And you better not eat my baklava," Illya warned.

"I'd never dream of it," Napoleon assured him blithely as he opened the box and started poking around. "He shouldn't be much longer," he said to Jim. He closed the box, leaving Illya's dessert be. "We'll feed you, throw you into bed, and we can figure out what's going on when you wake up."

That sounded wonderful to Jim. He could barely keep his eyes open.

"Got it," Illya announced, dropping through the hole and landing easily on the floor of the elevator, hands filled with the remains of whatever explosive device he'd just disarmed. "I don't think it's a THRUSH design."

Napoleon pursed his lips. "So, did THRUSH use someone else's design to throw us off, or is it someone else entirely who planted the thing?"

Illya shrugged. "I'll take it apart upstairs. I might be able to answer you then."

Jim forced himself to stand but Napoleon ended up grabbing his elbow again. "Come on. Maybe we'll skip feeding you and just park you in bed."

Jim nodded dully. With Napoleon at his side, he entered the elevator. He tensed for a second when Illya hit the "P", but nothing happened. The elevator shot up at an unsettling speed and Jim felt his ears pop as if he'd dived deeply under water. He swallowed and was relieved when they cleared.

The elevator arrived with a ding. Napoleon and Illya both had their guns out again. Jim clenched the knife, hoping he wouldn't actually have to use it. His reflexes were shot, and he'd hate it if something happened to Napoleon and Illya because he couldn't respond quickly enough.

"Nothing," Illya reported. "Apparently they were counting on the bomb to do their dirty work." He almost sounded disappointed.

Jim followed them a short distance down the hall to another door that had a very sophisticated assortment of gadgets attached to it. Illya took some readings and grinned. "They tried very hard to get in."

Napoleon grinned back. He explained to Jim, "No one can get in. Illya's made it impenetrable."

Jim found it hard to believe that any place was truly impenetrable, but he was too tired to argue. It took Illya about two minutes to cycle through all the gadgets. Finally the door opened, and the three men entered. It took Illya another minute to get it locked up again. Napoleon let out a happy sigh. "Now we're safe." To put action to his words, he took off his suit jacket and hung it up, then took his gun and holster and laid them on the table by the front door.

Jim was willing to take him at his word, so he handed the knife back to Illya. 

Napoleon took him in hand and dragged him farther into the apartment. "Shower, then bed. You can eat when you get up. I also want to check you out for any wounds we should pay attention to."

When Napoleon stopped, Jim saw he was in a bathroom. Napoleon adjusted some knobs and water began streaming out of the overhead spigot. In a short time, steam was filling the room. The only showers Jim had ever taken had been with cold water. If he wanted warm water to clean with, he'd always had to take a bath. 

"Strip," Napoleon commanded him.

Jim obeyed, finding sense in having Napoleon check him over. Artie would normally do it, but Artie wasn't here. Jim felt a moment's guilt at leaving him, even if he knew he'd do his lover no good in the shape he was in.

Napoleon told him to leave his clothes on the floor. Jim felt his impersonal touch as he investigated the bruises Loveless' men had left behind and the impact upon arriving. "Nothing too bad," he was reassured. Napoleon pulled back the curtain. "We've got loads of hot water, so take your time." He pointed to various containers. "They all say what they are, but the blue stuff's the shampoo. The soap's right underneath it. Here's a washcloth. I'll bring you a pair of Illya's pajamas. When you're done, hit that button first, it diverts the water to the lower spigot, and then turn the knobs to the right to shut them off. Left one is hot, right one is cold, you turn them to adjust the temperature."

Jim could do that. As Napoleon scooped up his clothes, Jim tested the temperature of the water. It felt like a slice of heaven. He got in, closed the curtain and let the water cascade over him. The force of the water almost hurt, but as he moved his body, the pressure acted like a massage, working out tired knots.

This alone was worth traveling to the future. Mustering the energy, Jim poured some shampoo on his head and began to scrub. When he was done with his hair and then his body, Jim stood under the spray a little longer. When he felt himself start to nod off, he followed Napoleon's instructions and shut off the water.

He found some navy blue pajamas on the counter and put them on, finding them to be a little large but a reasonable fit. He opened the door and found Illya waiting for him. Illya prodded him down the hall and opened another door. "Here's your room. That's water by your bedside."

Jim nodded gratefully.

"Sleep yourself out," Illya ordered. He picked up a weapon Jim hadn't noticed. 

"That looks like a Colt .45 Peacemaker," Jim said, surprised. It was odd to see something that might have sat on his own dresser at home. 

"It is. I thought you'd feel more comfortable having a weapon nearby you were familiar with. We are safe here, but…" Illya shrugged. "It is loaded with five bullets…that's correct, yes?"

Jim nodded. "Yes." He took the gun from Illya and checked it to find that the hammer was resting on the empty chamber. "Yes. It keeps you from shooting your foot accidentally."

Illya grinned at him. "There are more bullets in that bowl." The bowl was also sitting on the dresser.

Jim was touched by the gesture, and the research. He did feel better knowing there was a weapon here he could shoot without difficulty and that Illya had taken such care with it. "You collect guns?" It was the only explanation for why Illya had such an old gun in his possession.

Illya nodded. "Yes. Weapons of all sorts. I can show you if you wish, but for now, go to sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Needing no further invitation, Jim crawled onto the bed, taking a brief moment to admire how comfortable it was and how soft the sheets were, before he sank his face into the pillow and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Jim slowly awoke, too comfortable to want to fully relinquish sleep. But finally he was fully awake, his eyes blinking. "Artie?" He patted the bed next to him, but he was alone. Then his eyes took in the room around him, and he remembered where he was. Where Artie was.

He quickly sat up. There was a timepiece by the bed but, since Jim had no idea when he'd fallen asleep, knowing it was now eleven didn't help. He could see the sun shining brightly outside, so it was clearly eleven in the morning. It had been half-dark when he'd arrived at his friends' home, but Jim honestly didn't know if it had been a nighttime half-dark, or early morning darkness. He'd lost track of time at the hospital.

He stood, realizing he felt much better. The aches were largely gone. Jim stretched, drank some of the water and noticed there were clothes sitting on a chair with a note attached.

'We're downstairs,' it read. 

Cryptic and not much help. Downstairs where? 

First things first. Jim used the bathroom and then dressed in the borrowed clothing. Presumably they were from Illya, and Jim was grateful they were fairly similar in size. He eyed the revolver, debating whether to take it with him or not. Remembering Napoleon's surety that they were safe here, Jim left it on the dresser. 

Once in the main room, Jim heard Napoleon's voice so he knew that downstairs had to be close by. Following the sounds, he found a circular staircase and descended. The voices pulled him toward a room where the kitchen had been located in the above apartment. He poked his head inside and found what looked like a control center.

There was a huge map on the wall which appeared to be powered by more electricity. Colored lights were lit up sporadically across the pictorial representation of all the countries of the world. Napoleon saw him and gestured him in. "Ah, our time traveler is awake," he said with a smile. "How do you feel?"

"Good, actually. How long have I been sleeping?"

Napoleon noted the timepiece on the wall. "Sixteen hours." 

Jim couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so much. And to leave Artie alone all that time was unforgivable.

As if reading his mind, Napoleon said, "Don't worry. Illya's been over to see Artie. He's fine and is glad to hear you're getting the rest you need. There's a driver downstairs ready to take you over as soon as I've forced you to eat. Artie's words, not mine."

Typical of Artie to be taking care of Jim, even from a hospital bed. "What is this place?"

"It's a secondary U.N.C.L.E. control room. The main one is at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, but Illya recreated it here for those times when we need to stay home. I can do everything I need from here as well as at our main office." 

He gestured at the map. "All the white lights reflect the locations of our agents working on some mission or other. The red lights indicate some danger. Either something is going down, or a rescue is urgently required. Yellow indicates status quo, either reconnaissance or the mission is going as planned. Green indicates the action is over and clean up is underway."

There were only three red lights. He moved to the wall-size map and pointed to one in Texas. "What's happening here?"

"A couple of our agents literally tripped over a huge THRUSH compound. One of them was taken, but the other got away and notified us. I have a slew of agents on their way to affect the rescue and sweep the compound." 

“You used that word yesterday. Thrush. What does it stand for?”

“It’s an organization comprised of people whose primary goal is to create anarchy so they can take control of the world. They believe in the two-party system: the masters and the slaves. The initials stand for Technological Hierarchy for the Removal of Undesirables and the Subjugation of Humanity.”

“Charming,” Jim said. It sounded like something Loveless would have created. There was another wall of machines that had whirring wheels and blinking lights. “What's that?"

"Our computer system." Napoleon stared at it through narrowed eyes. "Despite my usual aptitude for computers, this particular one and I have an agreement. I leave it alone and it leaves me alone. Illya's the only one it likes. It's...," he thought for a moment, "it actually works very similarly to the brain. It stores information we give it which can be retrieved at any time. It can correlate data and draw conclusions. It can also talk to others like it."

"It's how Illya found out about my license," Napoleon continued. "Illya has this one set up to instantly recognize key names, mine among them. When the police entered my information into their computer, this one noticed it and alerted Illya."

Jim wished Artie were here to see this. He could imagine the look of utter astonishment and delight on his friend's face. Jim felt an urgent need to be by Artie's side. "Maybe I could eat at the hospital," he suggested.

"I'd get skinned alive by Illya and Artie," Napoleon said with a shudder. "I don't think I could handle both of them." His eyes lit up as a chime sounded. "That's Illya. He's home sooner than I expected."

By the time they ascended the staircase, Illya met them at the top. He smiled at Jim. "You look better."

"I feel better. I can't thank you two enough."

"We owed you a few favors," Napoleon said as he ushered them all into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and began throwing sandwich fixings on the table.

Illya got out plates, glasses, and silverware. 

Jim started taking off the outer wrapper from the items Napoleon had tossed. The variety was stunning. In his time, even a large restaurant wouldn't have this many types of meats and cheeses available. Once Illya and Napoleon sat down, Jim started happily assembling a sandwich fit for a king.

"Have any trouble getting in and out?" Napoleon asked Illya.

Illya shook his head. "I have placed agents around the building. With Jim and Artie here I decided we might be coming and going more frequently. I was concerned that with Artie in a cast, he will not be able to maneuver quickly if we are attacked."

Jim appreciated that. "Why don't you have agents here all the time?"

"They are needed all over the world. They don't need to waste their time protecting two fully qualified agents."

Illya looked as if he didn’t quite agree with Napoleon, but other than a look sent Napoleon’s way, Illya kept his mouth shut.

Jim wasn't exactly sure what their positions were with U.N.C.L.E., but they were clearly more important than agents. However, it wasn't any of his business as long as he could keep Artie safe. "You said this place was impenetrable," he said. "How do you know that?"

"The entire two floors are wrapped in a very fine wire," Illya explained. "It is similar to chicken wire, made of the strongest steel. It is alarmed and electrified. The windows and doors cannot be opened without first disarming a series of alarms, and if it is not done properly, our unwelcome guest will feel even more unwelcome." Illya grinned as he bit into his sandwich.

"Couldn't someone blow up the entire building?"

"Yes," Illya said darkly. "It is why I keep trying to get Napoleon to move to a secure building."

"Fortunately, they've only tried a few times," Napoleon said brightly, ignoring Illya's comment, as he opened up a bag of something. Jim read the name. Lays Potato Chips.

He ate one. Then he took a handful.

"He is why I now have gray hair," Illya said grumpily.

"You don't have gray hair," Napoleon countered. "I have more gray hair than you." He tapped his temples.

"You must look closely, but there is definitely gray." Illya rolled his eyes up as if he could see his hair that way.

"And you call me vain," Napoleon huffed. "You have given me more gray hair than I've ever given you." He turned to Jim. "Do you want to know why I said this place was impenetrable?"

Jim nodded.

"It's because he tried for six hours to get in and got nowhere. He wouldn't have stopped then except that he got a nasty jolt of electricity that stopped his heart. I did CPR on him for five minutes before it started up again." He pointed an accusing finger at Illya. "You are why I have gray hair."

Illya waved a casual hand at him as if his heart ceasing to beat was all in a day's work. "I needed to be sure no one could get in."

"CPR?" Jim asked for clarification, privately admiring Illya's doggedness. 

"Cardio-pulmonary resuscitation," Illya said. "You press on the chest to mimic a heart beat, and you breathe into the victim's mouth to mimic them breathing. You can keep someone alive for quite a while that way."

More things Jim didn't know. "I need you both to start teaching me about this century. There's too much I don't understand." He didn't miss the look Napoleon and Illya exchanged. "What?" he asked. 

"We've been thinking about that," Napoleon began. "Let's finish lunch, and then we can go see Artie and talk about it together."

Swallowing down his impatience, wanting to know what they were thinking, Jim refocused his attention on his lunch.

* * *

They all drove in together; Jim was beginning to realize that Napoleon went nowhere without his blond Russian shadow. After Jim incorrectly called something a car, Napoleon corrected him. “They're all vehicles, but that's a car," he said, pointing at the vehicle next to them. "And that's a truck." He pointed at a larger one.

"How about that one?" It was a size in-between the smaller and larger vehicles.

"That's a truck, too, but it's a personal truck, as opposed to a commercial truck." Hands on the steering wheel, Napoleon pointed ahead with an index finger. "That's a car, but it's also referred to as a sedan, that basic car shape." He pointed to another. "That's a van."

Jim watched as they passed the boxier vehicle. "What was the name of the wagon that took Artie to the hospital?"

"That was an ambulance." Napoleon pointed to the right, his hand coming perilously close to Illya's nose. "That's a convertible." Illya batted his hand out of the way. Napoleon frowned. "Although why anyone would have the top down when it's this chilly…"

Hearing something in Napoleon's voice, Jim took a careful look at the car next to them, which was why he saw the weapon being raised and aimed at Illya. "Illya," Jim cried, "get down." He grabbed for the gun that lay on the seat next to him and aiming as carefully as he could in a moving car, he fired. 

Just as he got the shot off, Napoleon braked sharply. Jim saw the red bloom of a direct hit grow on the man's chest, and the assassin fell against the driver, jerking the wheel. Their car hit the curb on the side of the road, bounced back into traffic, hit a car, and then slammed into a telephone pole on the side of the street, stopping the car sharply.

Napoleon pulled off to the side of the road, and he and Illya were out of the car, approaching the disabled vehicle, guns out. Illya was also talking on the thin metal object he'd identified to Jim as a communicator.

Jim reloaded his gun and got out of the car as well. But by then, Illya and Napoleon were at the other car, putting their weapons away. The one man was dead and the other was out cold. "That was a nice shot," Illya said, as he admired Jim's handiwork.

"That's another favor we owe you," Napoleon said with a look of gratitude. 

"I suspect we'll be collecting all those favors over the next few days," Jim said with a wry grin.

Shortly, two dark sedans pulled over to the side of the road. When Illya and Napoleon didn't react, Jim assumed they were other U.N.C.L.E. agents. They swarmed over the car, securing the unconscious man, starting their search of the vehicle. An ambulance arrived next, discharging more agents who removed the dead man from the car.

Illya snapped out a few commands. Once everything seemed under control, the three of them returned to their own car. Napoleon tapped his temples. "Gray hair, Illya. That weapon was meant for you. If Jim hadn't been with us, you'd be dead." 

Illya shrugged. 

Napoleon rolled his eyes and started up the car, shaking his head. Jim could understand why Illya shrugged. If you came out of it alive, that was all that mattered. It was Artie who got more caught up in the 'what if' game. Artie would be properly sympathetic to Napoleon's plight. Meanwhile, if Jim was going to be hanging around these two, he needed a better weapon.

* * *

When they arrived at the hospital, Napoleon made sure the agent guarding the door looked sufficiently alert, and then pushed by him after Illya and Jim, closing the door behind them. The wide window in the door made privacy difficult, but Napoleon yanked the curtain closed around the bed closest to the door, shielding all four of them from view.

Pulling Artie's curtain closed as well, giving Jim and Artie some privacy, Napoleon used the other cubicle to draw Illya into his arms to hold him tightly. At least Illya allowed him this. Illya had no interest in belaboring a near miss with death, but he allowed Napoleon to touch him. 

"I will be more careful, Napoleon," Illya said. He also always said that. Not that he meant it. How death had allowed them the barely casual courtesy they paid it continued to baffle Napoleon. They had always taken too many chances; probably would until the day they died. He kissed Illya gently, allowing his lover's gentle touch to calm him down.

An hour later, after they'd caught Artie up on events and he'd been able to see for himself how well Jim looked, Napoleon was glad that someone was as disturbed as he was about Illya's brush with death. After all this time you'd think he'd be used to Illya's easy dismissal of a near-hit, but every time it gave Napoleon the shakes.

It wouldn't last. Another hour and he'd be fine, but right now all he really wanted to do was hold Illya and keep him safe from all the crazy people out there who thought nothing of putting a bullet through his brain.

* * *

Jim took advantage of the unexpected privacy to kiss Artie; it seemed like years since they had touched. Jim almost laughed at that. It had been years. One hundred-twenty-five of them to be exact. "You scared me, Artie. I really thought I'd lost you this time. Thought I'd lost everything."

With his good hand, Artie caressed Jim's face. "I'm pretty hard to kill. Besides, I have no intention of leaving you alone."

"You better not," Jim warned. "I don't want to try living without you." He grinned. "You're too good a cook." He touched Artie's cast. "And don't think I'll buy this as an excuse."

"Ah, James, you're on to me. I was hoping you wouldn't see through this façade of mine but you did. You're right. This was all to try to get you to do the cooking."

Listening to Artie tease him brought home again just how close it had been this time. "I wish there was room in that bed of yours for me," he whispered.

"So do I," Artie whispered back. "It was lonely without you last night."

"I'll stay with you tonight," Jim promised.

"You'll do no such thing," Artie argued. "You'll go home with Napoleon and Illya and sleep in a real bed and eat real food. Granted, I'm not allowed a full diet yet, but even still, the stuff they're giving me has as much taste as sawdust. I ate better in the Army."

"Artie…"  
  
"Jim," Artie said kindly with a smile. "You need to rest up, because when I get out of here you'll be waiting on me hand and foot. I won't be able to do much of anything myself. I'm sure to run you ragged in no time."

Jim didn't care as long as he got to sleep next to Artie. How he'd gone most of his adult life without Artie next to him was beyond him. "When are they letting you out?"

"Four days, they said."

"Four days too long," Jim complained.

Artie motioned him closer and kissed him again. "I love you."

Jim felt a horse-sized lump in his throat and couldn't have spoken if his life depended on it. He hoped his eyes were communicating his love. They must have because Artie beamed back at him.

"Safe to come in?" Napoleon called, a teasing tone in his voice.

"It's safe," Artie assured him.

Napoleon pulled back the middle curtain, leaving the one by the door closed, affording them continued privacy. "Ready to talk?"

Artie and Jim both nodded. Illya and Napoleon pulled up extra chairs until they were all sitting around Artie's bed. 

Napoleon started off. "Time travel is an interesting paradox. We were concerned at first that you being here might change the past, but once we thought about it, we realized we have proof that you made it back safely. So, either you didn't affect the future because you got back and lived the life you were meant to live, or you've already affected the future by going back and living the life you weren't meant to live." He frowned. "Did that make sense? It seemed to make so much more sense this morning."

Artie smiled. "Little about any of this makes sense. Just think about the supposed linear aspect of time. When you left us by jumping through that light, you ended up here, because, well, after all, here you are. So, you left our time and in seconds were here. So was this time already here, existing in a parallel sort of universe, next to ours? Because if time was truly linear, it should have taken you close to a hundred years to get here. Or maybe you were in that light for all that time, in some sort of suspension."

"This stuff really gives me a headache," Napoleon complained.

"What proof do you have that we made it back?" Jim asked, focusing in on the one thing that made some sense to him.

Illya scowled. "This is where it gets difficult. As Napoleon said, we know you made it back, but we don't know what we did to get you back, or what we told you while you were here so the past wouldn't be affected. And we're not sure what to tell you now."

"Some damage has already been done," Napoleon said, "unless we give you an amnesia pill, because you've both seen too much." He pointed at the IV tubing and other paraphernalia. "For example, Artie, next time you take care of someone who's been hurt, you'll know what can be done to help, and you'll end up figuring out a way to do it. Could you see yourself not using what you now know?"

Artie shook his head. "It's there in my mind. It would be hard to ignore, even knowing I should ignore it." He frowned. "You have amnesia pills?"

Napoleon nodded. "But I wouldn't recommend them. Sometimes they wipe out a little too much memory."

Jim was still thinking about what Illya had said, puzzling it through. "We died. That's how you know we got back, right? You have records of our death." 

Napoleon nodded. "Yes, we know when and how you die."

The question went unasked, but a tense silence filled the air.

"We can't tell you much, but I will tell you this," Illya finally said, "because it's what I'd want to know. You die together."

Jim blew out a breath of relief. That was exactly what he wanted to know. "Thanks, Illya."

"I just hope knowing that doesn't make you relax or give up when you shouldn't," Illya said nervously.

"It's odd," Artie said, "knowing you know when we die. I'm trying to imagine what my life would be like if I knew the circumstances and timing of my death. Would I live my life more fully, or spend it wincing in anticipation?" He shook his head. "I'm not really sure I know the answer to that. But I don't think I want to know any more than you've told us. You've relieved my greatest fear." He smiled at Jim, squeezing his hand. "I'd hate to live my life without Jim, and I'd feel just as badly leaving him alone. We've gotten quite accustomed to each other."

Jim grinned at him.

"The next issue," Napoleon brought up, "which is why I put you off in the kitchen, Jim, is deciding what to tell you about the time you now live in. A part of me feels we ought to find some cabin deep in the woods and drop you off there until we figure out how to get you home. The less you know, the less you see, the less the chance you take home knowledge you shouldn't have."

"Or should have," Artie countered. "Perhaps we see things now that save our lives in the past, or save the lives of others."

Illya scowled. "This is why it's difficult to know what do to." He gestured at Artie. "One of the problems is that we'd like to keep you both here in this time until Artie recovers. If you went home now, and he got an infection or developed a problem with the cast, he'd be in serious trouble."

"But," Napoleon added, "that means keeping you here for weeks. And Jim's right, if you're going to stay here that long, you need to have some current knowledge. Even keeping you cloistered in our apartment won't help, unless we remove all the books and the TV and blacken the windows. And I can't see doing that to you."

"Just talking to you and Illya tells me things about the future," Artie confessed. "The phrases you use, the way you speak to the people around you."

Illya slumped back in his chair. "So, that leaves us here, having no idea what to do."

"When you researched our deaths, did you happen to look up Dr. Miguelito Loveless? He's the madman who sent us here," Artie explained. He shifted in the bed.

"Are you hurting?" Jim asked, just now noticing the tight lines around Artie's eyes.

"A little," Artie confessed.

Napoleon reached over and pushed the call button.

"No," Illya said, answering Artie's question. "But maybe we should."

Artie's question prompted Jim toward an intriguing thought. "Maybe some of the machine that sent us here still exists." He looked at Illya and Napoleon. "He often abandoned his inventions once they'd fulfilled his purpose or broke down. I think it was easier to just find a new place to start over again."

Artie nodded. "It also kept him one step ahead of us a good deal of the time."

A voice came out of the little box. " _Yes? May I help you_?"

"Artemus needs some pain medication," Jim informed the voice, hoping he wasn't making a fool out of himself. 

" _I'll tell the nurse_." 

Apparently that had worked. One more thing learned.

"Where were you when Loveless forced you into the device?" Illya asked. "Do you remember the location?"

"Mid New York State," Jim said. "If you had a map, I could probably figure it out."

"A map from then, or a map of now?" Illya clarified.

Good question. "A map of then," Jim decided.

The nurse entered the room, syringe in hand. She swabbed off a port, and then slowly shot the pain medicine into the IV tubing. Jim watched it take effect. The pain lines went away, and Artie's eyes began to glaze.

Artie smiled goofily up at the nurse, and Jim let out a half-laugh. "That's done the trick." 

She smiled at all four men, stumbled over one of the chair legs, blushed when Napoleon caught her, and left the room quickly. "You've lost your touch, Napoleon," Illya teased. "They used to stay when you caught them."

"I caught the one I wanted, so I let the rest of them go now." Napoleon winked at Illya, laughing when Illya reddened. He glanced over at Artie, laughed again at the blissful look on Artie's face. "They gave him the good stuff."

Jim grinned at him. "I think our conversation is over for the time being."

Illya stood. "Napoleon and I will go do some research and find a copy of a map of New York circa 1870. I assume you will stay here?"

Jim nodded.

Napoleon pulled out his wallet and handed Jim three bills with twenties on them. "These should cover anything you might need to buy. There's a gift shop on the first floor that sells books and magazines. I'm not sure whether to tell you to avoid them or not. There's also a cafeteria if you get hungry. This currency looks different but works just like what you're used to. Everything will cost more than you would expect, however."

"Thanks," Jim said taking the money. "Wish I could say I'll pay you back, but I probably won't."

"You already did on the ride in," Napoleon reminded him. "I'd give you everything I own if you needed it." 

Jim put the money in his pocket, acknowledging Napoleon's words with a nod. He felt similarly indebted.

Illya pointed to the phone. "If you need us, push the numbers written on the pad." He showed Jim where he'd left the phone number for U.N.C.L.E.. "If we call you…" He put out his hand. "Napoleon, let me have your communicator."

Napoleon handed it over. Illya made some adjustments and then handed it to Jim. "If it beeps just twist it like so," he demonstrated, "and it will be us calling. If you need us urgently, do the same thing and we will answer."

Jim nodded, willing to take it on faith. Apparently there was no limit to the things that could produce voices.

Illya said, "We'll be back in a few hours, and we'll bring you something to eat."

Jim grinned. "Artie will be glad to hear that, assuming they're letting him eat regular food by then."

"Hospital food," Illya said disparagingly and shivered. "It's a bad thing."

"You'll be all right?" Napoleon asked Jim.

"I will."

"I'm leaving the guard here," Illya reminded him. "So you won't really be alone. If you need something, he will help you."

Jim decided it was time to push his mother hens out of the roost. "Go. I'm fine." He shooed them toward the door.

Napoleon frowned at him and looked at Illya. "I think he's kicking us out."

"I think it is a not-so-subtle hint that we are being pests," Illya said in a very loud whisper.

They did walk to the door, however, and with a last grin, headed out.

As they turned the corner, Jim almost called them back. He took a deep breath. He could do this. He was an armed and fully capable Secret Service agent. Whatever happened, he could bluff his way through it. This certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd found himself in the middle of something bizarre. 

Mostly reassured, he moved back to Artie's bedside, sitting down and recapturing his lover's hand. This was all he needed to do. Sit here and feel the warmth of Artie's hand and just be glad they were both alive and together.

* * *

When Illya and Napoleon reappeared several hours later they came bearing a scroll and white bags of something that smelled divine. Jim hadn't moved from Artie's side except to use the bathroom, and he was hungry. 

He'd needed the time to just be with Artie. He hadn't wanted the distraction of something to read or eat. Jim had just wanted to sit with him, watch him, do for him when he needed something, and talk softly with him when he woke. 

The afternoon had been healing for the both of them. They had each other; they could get through anything.

"Chinese food," Illya said when he saw Jim sniffing the air. 

"Hey, Artie," Napoleon said cheerily. "Are they letting you eat yet?"

"You ask me that now," Artie scowled, "after bringing in that heavenly smell to taunt me?"

"I take it that's a no?"

Artie sighed dramatically. "They want me on liquids for one more day."

"Do you want us to take this down to the cafeteria to eat?" Jim asked.

"No, the company is worth the price of the deprivation," Artie said bravely.

Illya grinned at him. "We will bring you whatever you want for your first real meal."

"Something Italian," Artie mused. "Or maybe German. I love a good Bratwurst."

"We will bring both, so you do not have to decide," Illya reassured him.

Artie smiled. "Good man." He proffered his bedside table. "Eat, eat. I shall enjoy the aroma."

The other three men took him at his word and spread out, sharing the different dishes until their plates were overflowing. Silence reigned as the men ate, only interrupted for the request of more chow mein or another serving of rice. Every time Jim glanced up at Artie it was to find Artie's eyes on him. Or on his mouth.

Jim couldn't wait until he had Artie to himself. Casts and injuries aside, he'd find a way to put his mouth to good use to make Artie feel better. 

Finally, they were done. Napoleon found a trash can they crammed their empty plates into. Illya cleaned off the bedside table and returned it to Artie for his use. 

Mindful of Artie's injury but not wanting to leave him out, Jim had Napoleon unroll the old map on Artie's bed so he could see it as well. He and Artie took a good look at it. "We were up here," Artie said, tapping the map. "We were by this lake."

"I agree," Jim said. "Artie and I had dinner here," he tapped a small dot on the map representing Otsego County. "A town called Exeter. We'd been following Loveless' trail, hearing rumors that he was up to something."

"Jim and I spent the night in a bed and breakfast there and then headed out the next day going southeast, toward Cooperstown," Artie added. "We were waylaid by some of Loveless' goons and made the rest of the trip unconscious, but we couldn't have gone far."

"Were you in a building? A basement?" Illya asked.

"No, but we were underground. Loveless loved secret hiding places that no one could find. Part mole I think," Artie said with a grin.

"More rat, I'd say," Jim amended. "I remember they had fish for dinner, fresh fish, so we had to still be near the lake."

Illya nodded. "Jim, maybe you and I can go up there tomorrow and take a closer look and determine the most likely location. Once we get a clearer idea of where to look, I can send a team out to scour the area."

More than willing to do that, Jim agreed. He glanced at Artie. "You'll be all right?"

"You know I will. We do have to get home. If we could actually find Loveless' abandoned site, that will take us quite a few steps closer to getting there." Artie glanced at Illya. "Did you find anything out about Loveless?"

"He died and was listed as a maverick inventor who never really amounted to much."

Jim grinned. "I'm sure he's spinning in his grave hearing you tell us that. Where was he when he died? Did we have anything to do with it?"

Illya hesitated as if questioning the wisdom of answering but then shrugged and said, "No. It's hard to tell, but it appears he died of heart failure."

Only because Artie was going to be all right was Jim able to spare any pity for the little man. Unsung and gone with a whimper instead of a blaze of glory. Jim caught Artie's eyes, could see the same thoughts going through his head. While Jim had no idea of the actual circumstances of his death, at least he'd be with Artie when it happened. That would make up for anything else.

The four men visited for another hour, and then Illya and Napoleon stepped out to give them some privacy before taking Jim home.

"I'm a lucky man, James," Artie said, running the backs of his fingers across Jim's lips. 

Jim sent a chagrined look at Artie's cast and various tubes. "Not so lucky."

"Luckier than most. I'm alive. We're in safe hands. And I have you. I feel like a cat who's used up fifteen of his nine lives." He shifted in the bed. 

"Are you hurting?"

"Yes, but I can wait until you leave to ask for some pain medicine to help me sleep."

Jim didn't want him to wait that long. He pushed the call bell and told the nurse Artie needed more pain medication. Then he leaned down and gave his lover a thorough kiss. 

"Hmm. That's a better cure than any pain draught," Artie said with a smile. "Do that again."

Only too happy to comply, Jim kissed Artie again, refamiliarizing himself with the strength of Artie's tongue and the taste of his mouth. This he could do all night. But he heard the door opening and reluctantly pulled back. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Gordon," he said softly, "as soon as we get back." 

"I'll be waiting," Artie promised.

With one last look, Jim left the room to search for Illya and Napoleon.

* * *

The next evening, after Illya and Jim had spent most of the day scouring the area in New York, Illya put Jim in a cab to go to the hospital. He and Napoleon were dealing with some mission gone awry and wouldn't be free for a few hours.

Jim couldn't believe how much it cost, but when they arrived at the hospital, he dutifully paid the cab driver his fee and added in a tip as instructed. Within minutes he was with Artie.

Artie was watching something on the television and his brow was furrowed. Jim sat down next to him on the chair. "What are you watching?" 

"Something called Battlestar Galactica. Did you know that man's gone to the moon?"

Jim's eyes widened. "The moon?"

Artie nodded, still caught up in the show. 

Jim watched it for a minute. "Is this real?"

"No. It's a story."

"So there aren't cities in space?"

Artie shook his head. "No. They've got a United States flag up on the moon, but that's it."

Jim got up and moved to the window, gazing up at the moon that cast a radiant glow on the view outside. Almost inconceivable to think that way up there was an American flag.

"There are fifty stars on it."

"Fifty? There are fifty states?" There were only thirty-seven back in their time.

Artie nodded. "And did you know that there are flying machines?"

Jim snorted. "Besides the one that goes to the moon?"

"People use them to fly all over the world. They can fly hundreds of people at a time. They can fly from the United States to Europe in less than a day."

Jim couldn't quite imagine that. "Have you been watching television all day?" Jim noticed that Artie's eyes looked a little glazed and he didn't think it was from pain or pain medicine. 

Riveted on the television, Artie nodded again.

Standing, Jim moved to the device and shut it off. Artie blinked at it, and then looked at Jim. He could see the moment it fully sank in that he was there. "Jim." Artie blinked again. "Thank you. That machine's worse than mesmerism."

Jim leaned down and, after making sure no one was around, kissed him. "You look like you feel better."

"I do." He directed Jim's eyes to his side. "They took out that chest tube and stitched me up. I feel much better without it." He reached out for Jim's hand and pulled him down to sit on the bed. "And they took out that blasted catheter, so I feel like a new man."

Jim grinned at him, wanting to give him another kiss. He got up and pulled the curtain shut, giving them some semblance of privacy. Sitting back down, he put his hand over Artie's genitals, enjoying the natural feel of them now that the catheter was gone. 

It made him want to strip off his clothes and crawl into bed with his lover. "God, I want you," he said huskily. He could feel Artie's cock harden a little under his hand. 

Artie let out one of those moans that came from deep in his throat. The sound made Jim's trousers start to feel uncomfortably tight. He loved Artie's moans. They drove him crazy. 

"I want you, too," Artie said huskily. "But as much as it pains me to say it, this isn't the time or place."

Jim reluctantly moved his hand with a last squeeze. "How many days until you can leave?" he asked impatiently, knowing full well the answer. One day less than yesterday. Still too many damn days.

Artie just reached for his hand and held it. "How did it go today?" he said, changing subjects.

Just touching Artie had thrown the events of the day clear out of his mind. Jim forced himself to concentrate. "I think we found the entrance to Loveless' underground laboratory, but it looks like there was a rockslide as the entrance is buried. Illya will have a team go there tomorrow to excavate."

"Handy having powerful friends, isn't it?" Artie said with a grin.

Not that they hadn't had some powerful friends back home, but Napoleon and Illya had a lot of power. More than the President in some ways because their influence was global. Illya had explained a lot about U.N.C.L.E. today while they were wandering the countryside. Speaking of power…"He let me drive part of the way home," Jim said, remembering the feel of all that speed when he'd stepped on the gas pedal. 

Artie sighed. "You're having all the fun, James. It's not fair."

Jim tapped Artie's leg affectionately. "I'm sure you'll get a chance before we go home."

"Well, in the meantime, maybe you could give an injured man a back rub."

"Gladly," Jim said. He'd spotted some lotion here yesterday. He opened the small drawer of the bedside table and found it in there. Jim arranged pillows until Artie was lying on his side, broken arm resting on a thick roll of blankets. Jim poured some lotion on his hands, and warmed it up, glad to be putting his hands on his partner--even if it wasn't exactly where he wanted his hands. 

* * *

A couple of days later Illya walked into Napoleon's office. "How's the digging going?" Napoleon asked, as he watched some footage sent to him by an agent in Pakistan.

"It's going," Illya said. "And going and going and…" He started paying attention to what Napoleon was watching. "Was that the THRUSH satrap in Pakistan?" It was going down in flames.

"Yes," Napoleon said in satisfaction. "Was being the operative word." He turned the tape off. "I never get tired of watching that," he said with a grin. "What do you mean, going and going? I thought they got through the entrance."

"They did, but it emptied into a long series of caverns and a good deal of it has collapsed. They're shoring it up as they dig."

"Jim's sure this is the place?" 

"Yes." Illya had taken him there by helicopter yesterday to make sure before they kept digging. 

Napoleon nodded. Short and to the point. That was his Illya. "When are they releasing Artie?"

"Tomorrow." 

"Are we putting them in the suite downstairs?"

Uncharacteristically, Illya hesitated. "Actually, I thought I'd put them in our suite. Artie will still be recovering, and I wouldn't want him to have to climb stairs to get to the kitchen."

Napoleon sighed. It was probably the best solution, but he liked their room. "Fine. I'll help you move stuff tonight." He wiggled his eyebrows at Illya. "We'll have to christen the bed, you know."

"Of course," Illya said in a deadpan voice. "Far be it from me to stand in the way of tradition."

"All right, then." Napoleon was suddenly liking this idea. Bed christenings were always nights to remember. "Tonight?"

Illya finally grinned at him. "I'll put the rubber sheets on."

Napoleon barked out a laugh. "I'll be sure to take my vitamins." His eyes raked over his lover's body. It never got old. Even after all these years. "Get out of here, or we'll be putting this conference table to the test again."

Illya put a hand on the table, shaking it, as if testing its durability.

Napoleon groaned. "Out."

With a last grin, Illya obeyed.

"Jesus," Napoleon muttered. Temptation, thy name is Illya.

* * *

Finally. Artie had been discharged and driven back to Napoleon and Illya's in a large limousine. He'd been settled in, bathed, fed, and now, finally, finally, they were alone and in bed. 

Jim lay next to Artie, snuggled into his good side, soaking in his warmth. 

Artie let out an expansive breath. "I've missed you terribly." 

Jim just grunted into Artie's shoulder. He was enjoying the sensation of an uninterrupted and non-furtive moment with his lover. The twentieth century may have come a long way, but in many ways they'd gone backwards in their acceptance of relationships between men. Napoleon had warned him to be circumspect, even with fairly benign touching.

So this was heaven. Just this simple touch. Jim let out a contented hum.

"You sound like a purring cat," Artie said, a smile in his voice.

"A cat who wants some cream," Jim said smiling right back. He kissed Artie's neck, moved down to lick his collar bone, nibble his jaw. He continued his explorations and latched onto one of Artie's nipples, sucking, playing with the hardening nub with his tongue.

Artie did his deep-throated groan again, his hips arching. "The way you touch me," he said huskily.

Jim loved how Artie's responses were so genuine. No artifice, no acting to please his partner, just a hedonistic pleasure in Jim's touch. 

Artie tried to touch him back, but Jim pressed him down. "Don't try to move around. I don't want any of this to hurt you."

"But I want to touch you. It's been as long for me as it's been for you," Artie protested, even as he let out a nice throaty sound as Jim lapped at his navel.

Jim grinned through his ministrations. "Don't worry. I won't leave you out. Just let me do this for you right now."

Artie lay back against the pillows, surrendering. "I'm all yours."

Jim knew that. Rejoiced in that. Depended on it. And taking instant advantage, Jim reached his goal, Artie's large and very hard cock. Their job had often forced them to be apart, and often for far longer than a week, but being this close together and not being able to touch had seemed like torture. With a rapacious grin, Jim licked his lips and took Artie's cock in his mouth.

The noises Artie made were everything he'd hoped for. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked while using his tongue to drive Artie crazy. His lover's hands were gripping his hair hard enough to hurt. Jim didn't care. All it meant was that he was doing this right.

He used a hand to fondle Artie's balls, his other to stroke in time to his sucking. Jim could already feel Artie's balls start to tighten. It wasn't surprising this would be quick. Jim didn't expect to last any longer. Tomorrow night they could take their time.

Artie let out a bellow and his cock jerked, releasing its orgasmic load into Jim's mouth. Jim swallowed every drop, holding the cock in his mouth until it softened and Artie sagged back down onto the bed. Finally, Jim released it and looked up at Artie to find him almost asleep with a sated look on his face.

Not completely asleep, though. He managed to pry open his eyes and patted his chest. "Come here."

Jim lay between Artie's thighs, against his chest. Artie reached down with his good hand and took Jim's painfully hard cock in hand. He'd be lucky to last a minute, especially under Artie's oh-so-talented hand.

Trying not to move too much heightened the sensation. He didn't want to knock into Artie and cause him any discomfort. It felt as if he was held in invisible chains. 

He didn't last long, quickly spilling his seed over Artie's hand. Jim reached for the towel he'd grabbed before coming to bed and cleaned them both up. Then, moving to Artie's side, he nestled against his lover's larger body. "Good night, Artie."

Artie kissed his forehead. "Good night, James."

Thoroughly content, Jim slept.

* * *

Napoleon watched Artie and Illya as they concentrated on the remains of Loveless' lab. "Can it be moved?" he asked, much preferring the safety of an U.N.C.L.E. lab than this place in the middle of nowhere.

Illya shook his head. "It's amazing. He's actually used part of the cave wall to…" he stopped, looking closer. 

"To what?" 

"Could there be something in this stone he used as a power source?" Illya asked Artie. "This ring seems to be imbedded in the wall."

Artie stared at all the debris and then at the ring. "I don't know. I'd need to study it to be sure and, even then, I might not know. Loveless, for all the fact he was a maniacal fiend, was also a genius." He shrugged. "Unfortunately, I didn't even see it work; I was unconscious when he used it on me."

Illya grunted, moving so close to the wall it looked like he was going to merge with it. "I don't think we can move it, Napoleon," Illya finally answered. "It's possible Loveless found something in the actual compound of this cave, this wall, that's essential to the experiment. While we can take some of this stuff back to U.N.C.L.E. for reassembly, I believe we'll have to use the machine here."

"Can you put it back together?" Napoleon asked, gesturing at the remains of the lab. While there were several sections of the machine still intact, most of it seemed to be in pieces all over the large room. "It looks like a cyclone went through here."

"Probably Loveless having a tantrum," Jim suggested.

Napoleon was impressed. For a little guy, he could do a lot of damage. 

Artie grinned at Jim. "Probably angry that you were out of his reach, James. You know how he loved to show off for you."

Illya nodded. "That seems to be a universal trait of megalomaniacs the world over. Our THRUSH enemies love to share their evil plans so they can gloat." He glanced at Jim. "Did you see it work?"

"Yes." Jim moved over to where Illya was standing. "This was filled with a shimmering sort of light. He called it a probability horizon." He pointed to where a bank of antique monitors stood. "Those were beeping and flashing, and something over there," he pointed toward a heap of metal, "was making a tapping noise like a telegraph."

Illya looked at the pile of debris and pursed his lips. "This will take some time, Napoleon." With that, he crouched by the pile and began to investigate some of the items, handing them to Artie, the two of them conversing in low tones.

Napoleon watched them fondly. "Like two kids in a candy store," he said with a grin.

Jim grinned back at him. 

"We better get out of here," Napoleon whispered. "Right now they're not paying attention to us, but pretty soon they'll turn us into lackeys." Crooking his finger at Jim, he encouraged him out of the cave. "I brought some toys for us to play with just in case we found ourselves with time on our hands."

Opening up the left rear door to the helicopter, Napoleon flipped a latch that revealed a storage container. A moment later he was handing Jim some impressive hardware. 

"Thought you could try a few of these out," he said to Jim, smiling at the gleam in the lawman's eyes.

* * *

Two hours later, Jim was in love. He wanted to take all of it back with him. The accuracy, the firepower, all the attachments from the suppressors to the telescopic rifle scope filled him with envy. If he had weapons like this at his disposal…he sighed. Even if they did take some of it with them, they couldn't make the bullets or replace broken parts. 

Not to mention the potential consequences if any of it fell into the wrong hands. The ramifications of that didn't bear thinking about. One hundred years of advanced technology could completely change the face of the future, possibly with disastrous results.

He held the assault rifle, admiring the grip and how light it was compared to the rifles of his day. Something seemed to gleam off the scope for a second but then disappeared. The hairs rose on the back of his neck. "Napoleon," he said softly.

He was appreciative of the fact that Napoleon knew instantly that something was wrong. He moved to Jim quickly. "What is it?"

"I thought I saw something. I think someone may be watching us."

"Maybe it's someone from the town," Napoleon suggested. 

That was possible, Jim thought. They'd been shooting for a while now. It wasn't unreasonable for someone to have come investigating. But he didn't think so, and a look at Napoleon's face told him he didn't think Napoleon thought that either.

There was a sound of an engine, and the rotors of the helicopter began rotating. "They're taking the helicopter," Napoleon hissed, taking off toward it at a run.

Jim was right beside him. They weren't more than a few hundred yards from where Illya had landed the helicopter, so it didn't take them long to get there. A pilot was getting ready to lift off, and a second man was about to get in.

Napoleon lunged for the man, yanking him away from the helicopter. Jim leaped around them and jumped inside, pointing his gun at the thief. "Turn it off," he demanded.

The pilot ignored him, flipping switches. Jim felt the thing start to hover. He held his position, switching off the safety on his weapon, and pointing it again. "Put it back on the ground." Jim had enjoyed the helicopter flight more than most things he could remember, but doing it again with someone other than Illya in control was not something he wanted to do. Especially if things went wrong. It would be a long first step. "Put it down," he demanded again.

The pilot smiled at him, the sort of smile a soldier on the front line smiles when he doesn't care if he lives or dies. The helicopter began to rise. There was a thump, and the vehicle dipped sharply. The pilot compensated and righted it and then rose at a precipitous rate. "Go ahead and shoot," the pilot dared. "Hope you know how to fly one of these things," he taunted.

Needless to say, Jim didn't. And a self-taught crash course would end up being exactly that. A crash. "I could just shoot you in the foot," Jim said bitingly. He aimed the gun at the man's feet.

"Shooting a gun in a helicopter's not a good idea," the man said scathingly. "But feel free."

Jim hated that he had no idea if the man was bluffing or not. Damn. He should have paid closer attention as Illya flew the damn thing. He glanced down at the ground that was falling away at an alarming rate. Frowning, he realized he only saw one body. One. That meant…

Just as he was forming the thought that maybe that thump had been Napoleon hitching a ride, the pilot's door was pulled open, and Napoleon swung in with both feet, kicking the pilot in the face, knocking him over and out at the same time. Jim dragged him out of the way. "Please tell me you know how to fly this thing," Jim asked urgently.

Napoleon grinned at him, seizing the controls. "Piece of cake." And it was. In only a couple of minutes he was landing it right back where they started from. Jim took the time to truss up their thief, searching his pockets for identification. "Russell Thanson," he read off a business card. 

"Don't know him," Napoleon said. "But I do know the man on the ground. One of our THRUSH friends."

"Why are they here?" Jim asked. "They couldn't possibly know about Loveless' machine." Even Loveless couldn't have set up some posthumous revenge on the faint hope that Jim and Artie would show up here. 

"The helicopter," Napoleon said. "It's our newest design filled with all sorts of gadgets they'd love to get their hands on. They probably tracked us from headquarters."

Jim had been shown some of their tracking devices. Obviously THRUSH had them, too. He nodded. "Is that one dead?"

Napoleon nodded. "Very. I'll call headquarters and have someone come to take them both off our hands. Maybe this one," he nudged the unconscious man with his foot, "will have some answers for us as to whether anyone else will be paying us a visit. If so, we'll need a security contingent to keep them safe," he added with a jerk of his chin toward the cave.

Napoleon cuffed the unconscious man to one of the struts of the helicopter, patted him on the head and headed at a fast pace toward the cave. When they got there, Illya and Artie were piecing things together, totally unconcerned.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Didn't you hear the helicopter taking off?"

Illya nodded. "Yes."

"And you didn't think you should investigate?"

With a furrowed brow, Illya looked up at him. "Why? We were in here working. You were out there shooting guns." Despite his cavalier words, Jim noticed him giving Napoleon a careful look, as if checking for wounds. "I take it you weren't giving Jim a flying lesson?"

"No, THRUSH was trying to steal your newest toy."

Illya's eyes narrowed. "They did not succeed, I trust?"

"No," Napoleon answered with a frown. "They did not succeed." He did a good job mimicking Illya's deadpan tone. "Glad to see you're so worried about the helicopter."

"I am just glad you found something to occupy your time instead of standing around here distracting us."

Napoleon looked toward heaven for strength and pulled out his communicator to call for a pick-up.

* * *

Bedtime came early that night, and the next morning they all sat down to omelets made by Napoleon. Artie wondered if he could take one of those omelet pans home with him. If there was a way to do it without causing harm, he'd take a trunk home of all the items they'd used since being here, wondering how they'd lived without them. Post-it notes, ballpoint pens, disposable razors, scotch tape, mint-flavored toothpaste. The list was endless. 

He didn't waste his time drooling about the electronics. There wasn't any way to use them back home. Although he'd have sold his back molars to take home a computer. 

Illya joined them a few minutes later, and Napoleon slipped an omelet onto the plate in front of him. With a smile, Illya dug in. "Our little friend yesterday was definitely THRUSH," Illya informed them.

"Was he alone?" Napoleon asked. "Other than his deceased partner in crime?"

Frowning, Illya finished a bite. "Yes."

"And their mission?" 

"To steal the helicopter," Illya answered, still frowning.

"But you don't believe it?" 

"Why go there to steal a helicopter?"

Napoleon shrugged. "Because it was there?"

Illya shot Napoleon a look that made Artie grin.

Trying again, Napoleon said, "Illya, do you really think someone could resist our veridicals? Especially a bozo like that?"

"No," Illya said shortly.

"But you still don't believe it?"

"You think it has something to do with the cave?" Artie asked Illya. 

"Napoleon and I searched the cave and the open tunnels leading in and out of it, and other than a few old sticks of dynamite we didn't find anything or anyone," Jim said. "What else could they be looking for? They couldn't possibly know about Loveless' invention."

"Maybe they do," Artie said. "Maybe he left behind journals. Based on what you've told me of THRUSH, it sounds as if Loveless' inventions would have fit right in. Maybe they've been searching for this particular one, and we led them right to it."

Jim scowled. "I hate the idea that Loveless is still managing to cause us trouble."

"He always was the most tenacious of criminals," Artie said. "Somehow it doesn't surprise me that his ghost is managing to hound us even a hundred years in the future." He let out a mirthless but admiring laugh.

Illya's eyebrows went up and then furrowed. "Perhaps they were stealing the helicopter to pull us out of the cave."

Napoleon grinned at him. "Goes to show how little they know you once you've got your grips into a science project." He got up to pour everyone more coffee.

Maybe they could take back some of this coffee as well, Artie mused, as he buried his nose in the aromatic steam rising from his mug. 

"I assume you have a security detail at the cave?" Napoleon asked.

"Of course," Illya snapped, looking insulted to even be asked.

Napoleon handed Illya the last biscuit as an apology, and it was snatched quickly and buttered heavily. "Well, as much as I'm enjoying myself, and as much as I give my agents a bit more autonomy than Mr. Waverly did, I still need to show my face at the office now and then. What are everyone's plans for the day?"

"Artie and I will be in the lab for the foreseeable future."

Jim grinned. "I'll be down at the shooting range."

Illya glanced at Artie. "You might find yourself being replaced by an automatic rifle one of these days."

Artie barked out a laugh. "Cold comfort come dark of night, James, my boy. Keep that in mind."

Jim leaned in toward Artie and whispered in his ear. "After last night, I'm unlikely to forget."

Artie was appalled to feel himself blushing, the situation only made worse by Illya and Napoleon's knowing grins. He couldn't have possibly made that much noise during their lovemaking.

Napoleon chuckled a little and ordered up a helicopter to take them all into U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.

* * *

"You realize, Napoleon," Illya said later that evening, "that using U.N.C.L.E. security to guard this place for all this time will ensure that everyone knows you live here."

Napoleon scowled at him. "I'm not moving."

Illya scowled at him.

Jim caught Artie's eyes and grinned. Illya might bitch and moan about the penthouse and its cadre of security nightmares, but it was clear Illya loved the place. Jim would have bet money that if Napoleon suddenly agreed to move, Illya would be backpedaling as fast as he could.

Jim had cooked tonight. Basic steak and potatoes. Illya had pulled together a salad. It was odd to be sitting down every night for dinner. Back home, if he and Artie spent three nights out of seven having a relaxing dinner at home it was something to talk about. They were so often on missions, or en route to or from one, that many of their meals were taken on the road. And there were plenty of times when they went without. 

Napoleon had told him that there were weeks when he and Illya never came home at all, sleeping at Headquarters, taking all their meals there. Apparently the world was behaving itself right now. “Which,” Napoleon said, “bodes poorly for the future, because it means everyone is busy hatching schemes.”

"Did anyone disturb the cave at all last night or today?" Jim asked.

"Last night, no," Illya said, cutting his steak into small bite-sized pieces. "But today, they found more dynamite."

"And this is a problem?" Napoleon asked with a twinkle in his eye. "You love dynamite."

"Illya and I did some studies on the samples of the rock the ring is resting in," Artie said. "It's quite explosive. It's a miracle the cave didn't blow up when he turned the damn thing on. In fact, him using it was probably what caused all the rockslides."

"Which might be why everything is still there," Jim mused. "Loveless, Antoinette and Voltaire must have gotten out somehow through a hidden passage."

Illya frowned. "So there might still be such a passage?"

Jim nodded. "There might. And there might be more dynamite. I think that while you two play in the lab and Napoleon pretends to rule the world, I'll go hunting for dynamite."

Napoleon shot him a narrowed-eyed glare, but then turned back to Illya. "Did they report anything else happening?"

"A group of young boys showed up," Illya answered, perking up with interest, "wanting to get into the cave to look for buried treasure."

Artie smiled. "Buried treasure?"

Jim snorted. "These mythical journals of Loveless' were probably as misleading as he was. Instead of saying he had a madman's invention in the cave, he probably described it as a jewel beyond price, a gambler's dream." 

Napoleon considered his words as he took a sip of wine. He looked at the bottle. "Nice."

"Artie chose it," Illya said, toasting his glass toward Artie.

"Quite odd to select a bottle of wine that was bottled long after I'll be dead," Artie said with a rueful smile. "Next time we drop in, we'll try to bring a bottle or two with us."

"Please," Napoleon said. "It's the only polite thing to do when you drop in unannounced." After smiles were exchanged he glanced at Illya. "Do you think they were just boys?"

"That's the interesting part. When questioned, they admitted that a group of strangers in Exeter had encouraged them to poke around."

"Strangers? You think it's THRUSH?" Napoleon asked with concern. 

"I think that we are going to find out," Illya said with a grim smile.

Jim wasn't sure what to believe. He addressed the only thing he was really concerned with. "Is the machine safe enough?" All he needed was for a bunch of kids to get in there and vandalize the place, much less evil criminals. 

"Yes," Illya said firmly.

That was good enough for Jim. "How close are you to figuring out the machine?" he asked Illya and Artie. When he'd popped in to visit with Artie at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, he and Illya had been too busy to even notice him. He'd sat down anyway, making himself at home, enjoying the rare opportunity to watch Artie at his craft.

Too often, when Artie was busy in his laboratory coming up with some chemical means to foil their enemy, Jim was off on his own, doing the same through a more physical means. Being able to watch, having nothing of his own to do, was a treat.

Despite Artie being hindered by his cast and having come from the past, he more than held his own with Illya, offering up as many suggestions as the Russian, both of them enjoying the scientific stimulation of the other. 

"It's a bit like putting a giant jigsaw puzzle together," Artie said. "Some of the pieces seem to be in good shape, and for those that were broken or dented, Illya already has the Research and Development folks repairing or replacing them."

Illya scowled. "If I could just understand how it all fits together, and how it harnesses enough energy to throw someone across time, we'll be all set." He beat out a tattoo on the table. "I've been wondering if it might not be easier to try to recreate the THRUSH machine that took us back in time. Perhaps we could send you back that way."

"You'll figure it out, one way or the other," Napoleon announced with complete faith. "It's not like we're in a rush. We need to let Artie heal before we can even try."

Still annoyed, Illya said, "That's another thing. What is a probability horizon? How do we know it will even take you home? Isn't it just as probable that it will throw you another twenty years into the future?"

"If it does, drop us a line when you get there. We'll come by for dessert," Napoleon said jauntily.

Jim had wondered the same thing. Wondered if he and Artie might not be so lucky, maybe ending up in two separate places this time. There was a lot he'd been wondering about and he voiced one of his thoughts. "How does Time know when to let the changes show?"

Artie furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Right now we're here, instead of at home. We're not where we're supposed to be, meeting the people we're supposed to be meeting, and stopping the crimes we're supposed to be stopping. How long does Time wait around, assuming we're going to get home? What happens if we decide to stay here? When is the cutoff for the future to change?"

"We know you go home," Illya said. 

Jim nodded. "I know, you said you found out when we die. But, meanwhile we're here, so how does Time know, right now, that we'll go home? How long can we be here before us being here affects the past?"

Napoleon let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned back in his chair. "Have I mentioned how much I hate these questions?"

"You write us a letter," Illya said suddenly. "Western Union delivered it a few days after we returned from our visit with you, but you wrote it in 1895." 

"I thought we weren't telling them that," Napoleon said with a frown.

"I know. But it seemed the right thing to say." Illya leaned forward. "It's not just that we know when you die, but we hear from you twenty years into your future. So we know you get home, live full lives, retire together." He toasted them with his glass. "Make wine."

"Bring us some of that next time," Napoleon requested.

Artie grinned at Jim. "We live to retire." His voice reflected some astonishment.

Jim could understand his amazement. There weren't too many men who enjoyed retirement in their line of business. He watched Illya and Napoleon exchange glances. Their line of business, either. His question hadn't really been answered, but he was more sure of getting home now. His own government could have declared them dead at some point when they didn't return and that could have been what Illya had found. It didn't necessarily have to mean that their bodies were actually buried under American soil somewhere.

But an actual letter. He liked that idea. Even if it was eerie knowing they really had been dead and buried by the time it was delivered.

Napoleon glanced at his watch. "You'll have to excuse us, gentlemen. Illya and I have a conference call to make to Hong Kong. We might be a while, so consider the evening yours."

Illya gestured at the dishes. "I'll clean up later," he said, then followed Napoleon out of the room.

Jim might only be the most basic of cooks, but he could clean up with the best of them. He did it almost every night when they were home, as Artie did most of the cooking. He got up and started stacking dishes. 

The grin on Artie's face drew him in, and he leaned down to kiss his partner. Artie was still grinning when he pulled back. "Winemakers, Jim. I think that's a fine idea. Land to call our own, rich soil, hot sun, teasing a bountiful harvest out of the earth." He let out a contented hum, then reached out to grab Jim's hand. "And we do it together."

Needing to be closer, Jim carefully straddled the chair sitting on Artie's lap. "You all right? I'm not hurting you?"

Artie's answer was to hold him close with his one good hand. "Never, James."

The dishes could wait.

* * *

Two old men ambled into the Red Indian Café, the only eating establishment in Exeter, and sidled up to the counter, claiming two stools not far from a table of six men in black suits.

One, with a wizened face and gray, bushy eyebrows, called out loudly, "Coffee over here, girlie. And cream with it. You ain't gonna catch me eatin' that powdered stuff everybody's usin' nowadays."

The other, more slightly built with a moth-eaten knit cap pulled low over his forehead and a wispy beard, added, "That's right, Gordie. You go ahead and have cream. I'll say I told you so when I'm standing over your grave. That stuff'll clog your arteries and end up giving you a heart attack. I'll take Coffee Mate any day. Better living through chemistry, I say."

His Russian friend's makeup and disguise materials were similar to what Artie was accustomed to, but much more comfortable. Nothing itched or made him sweat, which he was thoroughly enjoying. The two doctored and worshiped their coffee cups and turned their ears to the nearby table.

Totally oblivious to the arrival of the cantankerous pair, the men were deep in conversation. The youngest at the table asked, confused, "So whatever's down there is over a hundred years old? Why are we bothering, then?" 

Another laughed scornfully. "What are they teaching you kids in training these days? Didn't they tell you about Miguelito Loveless?"

The young man blushed. "Er, well, they may have mentioned him. I might not have been paying complete attention."

"Your loss, then. Loveless is considered one of the forerunners of our organization. The man was a genius. Way ahead of his time."

Artie cast a look at Illya and waggled his eyebrows. He no longer felt sorry for his nemesis. The general public might not know his name, but he had the feeling that Loveless would be pleased as punch that criminals and villains held him in such high regard. 

The man continued to educate his young colleague. "If Loveless had access to today's technology, I bet we'd be working for him. Even with what he had available back then, he came up with some fantastic stuff. Did they tell you about the machine that could turn all the fresh water in the world to salt?"

The younger man nodded. "Yeah. I remember that. And THRUSH had the only way to turn it back again. That plan almost worked, didn't it?"

The others at the table nodded sadly. One responded, "And it would have, too, if it weren't for those U.N.C.L.E. bastards. Anyhow, that was based on one of Loveless' prototypes. We've found several of his laboratories over the years, and there's always something good in them. A lot of us think that it'll be a lead from Loveless that will put us over the top. That's why we have to get in there and get our hands on whatever he left before U.N.C.L.E. does."

The Secret Service agent shifted on his stool and almost knocked over his cup with the cast hidden under his thick jacket sleeve. He snarled at the waitress, "More coffee. Sometime today if you don't mind."

Another of the THRUSH agents joined the conversation. "But obviously U.N.C.L.E. is already in the laboratory. Won't they have taken anything worthwhile?"

The first man answered, "Not necessarily. That's where we have the advantage over them. We know Dr. Loveless." He snorted derisively. "They think he was a midget of all things. He had all kinds of hidden compartments and rooms everywhere he worked. We'll know what to look for while U.N.C.L.E. will only scratch the surface."

Another man added, "But still, the sooner we get down there the better. It'd be a shame to have them stumble on something useful by accident. Think of all the extra work if we have to go to the trouble of stealing it back."

"That's why we're going in tomorrow night. We'll take them by surprise and steal the treasure right out from under their noses."

The young agent asked, "But how will we get in? It's pretty well guarded."

"Now that we know where it is, we have a map to find a secret way in. We just never knew exactly where the damn cave was located before. We can thank U.N.C.L.E. for finding it for us."

They all laughed. "Yeah, we'll thank them. We'll thank them real good."

The old men paid their bill and shuffled to the door. As they wandered down the sidewalk on the way back to the U.N.C.L.E. van, Artie asked quietly, "So do these THRUSH fellows of yours always discuss their plans in crowded cafes?"

Illya chuckled. "They are clever and dastardly, but few of them have ever been accused of conspicuous intelligence. It makes our job much easier. Unfortunately they're like a flock of pigeons. You can scatter them over and over again, but they always come back."

Artie nodded. Miguelito Loveless would truly find them kindred spirits.

* * *

Jim lay on his belly in the dry grass behind a hillock. The night was unseasonably cold, and he had to wear gloves to keep the night-vision binoculars from shaking as he looked through them. He swept the horizon, alert for the arrival of the enemy.

Next to him, Napoleon did the same, except he did it with a satisfied smile on his face. The U.N.C.L.E. chief said happily, "Any time now."

Jim couldn't help but grin. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"You have no idea. I know that what I do now is important and I know that I do it well, but nothing gets the blood flowing like fieldwork. I've found myself starting to feel old the last few years behind a desk. Tonight I feel young again."

Jim could well imagine. He expected that at some point his superiors would want to shift him to a supervisory position in the Secret Service, or even get him into an office in Washington, but he didn't plan to cooperate. When that day came, it would be time to take his partner and head to wine country. After riding the open range most of his life, to be trapped behind a desk would be like dying. He wouldn't do it, not even at the direct request of the President.

Checking on the slight glow indicating the location of the other agents, he noticed some moving spots. "There they are."

Napoleon followed his line of sight and whispered into his communicator, "Little birdies flying in from the east. Maintain position."

As the men drew closer, Jim switched to regular binoculars and studied them. They were wearing all black with high-collared sweaters and face masks. There could be no mistaking them for midnight ramblers. One man held a map under a small flashlight and then directed the others to follow him. Soon they stopped and started digging on the far side of the hill from the entrance guarded rather obviously by U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Jim and Napoleon waited in silence. The plan was to let them get inside before taking the THRUSH men down. There was less chance of them escaping that way, and U.N.C.L.E. would also have the secret passage opened for them.

One by one the men dropped into a hole in the ground, leaving a single agent on the surface.

Napoleon ordered, "All right, move in."

He and Jim were the closest to their target, so they stealthily crept across the hillside until they were directly behind the enemy agent. Napoleon motioned for Jim to go ahead, but Jim whispered, "Oh, no. By all means you should have the pleasure."

Napoleon flashed him a wide smile, moved in behind the man and knocked him out with one chop from the side of his hand to the man's neck. As Napoleon dusted his hands with energetic satisfaction, Jim stepped up next to him.

"As good as you remember?"

The other man beamed. "Even better."

They waited for several minutes, slowly joined by the other agents. Then Napoleon's communicator chirped. He said into it, "So how did it go?"

Illya's voice answered, "All the little birdies are in a cage. We let them open a secret compartment before we thought it best to intervene. They were right, there was a device hidden in it. Artie is poking at it now."

Napoleon praised, "Well done. Another small affair successfully completed."

Illya warned, "And you, my friend, are going back into your own cage."

His face falling, Napoleon sighed. "Yes, mother."

Jim slapped him on the back. "But not quite yet. Shall we go down and see what our partners have found?"

The smile returned. "Ah, yes. Once more into the breach," he proclaimed as he disappeared into the hole.

* * *

The next few weeks flew by. Artie and Illya continued to work in the U.N.C.L.E. labs or the caves, rebuilding the machine. The device found by THRUSH had helped Illya better understand the logistics of Loveless' invention, a lucky stroke of luck. Illya suspected it was another prototype of a time travel device, although he wasn’t sure if it had been hidden away because it was a failure, or if it was hidden because it was even more valuable than what Loveless had left hanging around.

Jim spent his time on the firing range, or scouring the cave for what seemed to be a never-ending cache of dynamite, no doubt set up that way by Loveless as a means of protection or escape. He also supervised the permanent closure of the escape tunnel, which had to be done carefully to avoid endangering the rest of the structure. 

In between those activities, he spent time with Napoleon studying current espionage and infiltration techniques, knowing he was garnering odd looks from U.N.C.L.E. staff for being an unknown visitor with apparently unheard of access to the Number One of Section One; only Illya took more liberties. Jim developed even greater respect for Solo's abilities, but didn't envy him the job at all.

Right this particular moment, though, he had nothing to do. Illya and Napoleon were both in a highly confidential meeting from which Napoleon had apologetically excluded him. So Jim decided to go find Artie and have lunch. Not surprisingly, he found him in the lab. He was sitting there in a chair staring off into space, a frown on his face.

"Artie, is something wrong?"

Artie looked up at him, startled, then flashed him a strained grin. "No. Not really. I just…" He raised his good hand, gestured around the room, as if it presented a problem.

"You just?" Jim prompted, leaning against a counter, making sure he wasn't in danger of knocking anything over. He'd done that once in Artie's lab, a result of some energetic kissing that got out of control. Whatever it was he'd knocked over had spilled on him and had burnt like fire. To add further insult to injury, Artie had stopped his lovemaking to drag him outside and throw him in the trough.

Needless to say, the injury and subsequent cold bath had installed a watchful air when leaning up against counters.

"I appreciate what Napoleon and Illya are doing for us, telling us anything we want to know, sharing all the secrets of the last hundred years, but it worries me."

"Why?"

"How can I not use any of this knowledge if it could save your life one day? I would need to study for years to have Illya's understanding of science and physics, but seeing the things I've seen and listening to what he tells me has advanced my own learning to more than I could ever have hoped for in my lifetime."

"I keep remembering about that letter," Jim said slowly, thinking it through. "We get home, and whatever we do once we get there helps to build this future." It was his turn to gesture around the room. "Not U.N.C.L.E. specifically, but this world. We've already done it, whatever it was. We've already gone back with the knowledge we garnered from here, and put it into play."

He moved over to Artie, stood behind his chair, encouraging his lover to rest his head against his stomach. Then he carded his fingers through Artie's hair.

"Winemakers," Artie said, craning his neck to look up at Jim. "The two of us."

Jim smiled down at him. "The two of us." He looked around the room again. "I've had the same thoughts. I've learned so much about the weapons of today and the political upheavals around the world that occurred over the last hundred years. I've seen who becomes President after Grant and who among the Presidents' most trusted officers become traitors. How can I act as if I don't know all of this when we get home?"

"Do you wish they'd done as they'd originally suggested? Taken us somewhere out in the woods where we'd have seen nothing and learned nothing?"

Jim shook his head, resting his hands on Artie's shoulders. "No." He was sure about that. "That would have been torture." He would have gone crazy being sequestered like that. So close to all this knowledge, yet having it locked away from him.

Artie reached up and patted one of his hands. "Regardless, James, you're right. We have already done it." He grinned. "Napoleon's right not to like these conversations. The more you think about it, the crazier it sounds." 

"You hungry?" Jim asked, remembering the reason he'd come down here.

"Yes, I am." Artie set the file that had been on his lap on the countertop.

Jim noticed something else on the counter: the gadget used to bring Napoleon and Illya to the past. "Has Illya had any luck with that?" he asked, pointing at it with his chin. 

Artie shook his head. "No. He can't figure out how to get it to work. Illya hasn't been able to find any reference to it in any of the THRUSH reports they've appropriated, and the THRUSH agents responsible for finding it had no idea what it was they were looking for, just that they had to locate it. Whatever substance Loveless used has gone entirely inert, so it can't be analyzed."

"So that leaves us with Loveless' machine," Jim stated unhappily. Ever since Illya had mentioned it, he'd been hopeful they'd find a surer way home than the probability ring. 

"Illya will keep working on both, but, yes, it most likely leaves us with Loveless' machine."

"And how do we know it won't send us someplace further into the future, or back to our prehistoric past?"

"Because I believe Time will try to right things if we jump in it again. We'll go back. We know we go back." He grinned at Jim. "Apparently we both need to be reminded of that on a regular basis."

Jim nodded. He did need to be reminded. Every five minutes or so it seemed. "I'm ready to be home." Maybe that was why he was growing more and more anxious. He wanted to be home in their own time, in their own bed, even if it meant they were leaving long hot showers and sheets that felt like silk behind.

"It's been a fine adventure," Artie agreed, "but I'm ready to be home, as well. It will be very relaxing to be back in a time when I understand everything, and there isn't something that makes my jaw drop around every corner."

"How long do you think it will be before you have the thing reassembled?"

"Probably just about the time I'm due to get this cast off, in about two weeks." Artie winked at Jim. "And I'm looking forward to that, too."

Jim was, too. He and Artie had made love almost every night, but with the cast on Artie's arm they were restricted to certain positions. Not that there was anything wrong with the positions they were using, but still…. Grinning at Artie, he said, "It sounds like we'll have a lot to celebrate, then."

* * *

"What favors did you use up to pull this off?" Napoleon whispered to Illya as they all walked into the Smithsonian, into a wing that had been closed off to everyone but themselves.

It was Friday. Artie had gotten his cast off the day before, and Sunday was the big day. The machine was reassembled and all that remained was turning it on. Given the age and delicacy of the machine, there wouldn't be a trial run. Either it worked or it didn't. If it didn't, Illya would go back to the THRUSH gadget in hopes of figuring it out.

Today and tomorrow was a reward for all their hard work. Plus, Illya had something he wanted to show their friends before they went home. So they had all climbed aboard the U.N.C.L.E. Cessna and Illya had flown them to Washington, D.C.

  
All week, Illya had been very secretive about it and, to Napoleon's annoyance, had refused to let him in on the surprise. Based on their lovemaking, Illya was very excited about it. Very. 

"Next time you check out our wine cellar, you'll find out," Illya whispered back.

Napoleon frowned at him. "Nothing I like, I hope," he said bitingly.

Illya shot him an innocent grin. "What kind of fool do you take me for, Napoleon? Surely you don't think I'd give away something I like?"

Napoleon glowered at him. "It better not be the case of wine I got from Pierre as a Christmas gift."

"I am surprised you do not sleep with a bottle or two under your pillow," Illya said with a wounded air.

"Because you'd drink it all when I was sleeping," Napoleon accused. "Tell me it wasn't that wine, please."

Illya relented. "Fine. It was the champagne the Gettys sent."

Napoleon made a face. "I hate that champagne."

"I know," Illya said. 

Napoleon grinned at him. "Smart Russian." He turned to look back at Artie who was slowly ambling behind them, looking at everything, Jim by his side. Napoleon glanced at Illya. "Have you gotten their first aid kit all packed?" Illya had been assembling a large assortment of medicines for them to take home, including antibiotics, aspirin and pain killers. It wouldn't last them a lifetime as the drugs would expire long before then, but it might get them through a scrape or two.

Illya nodded. "I added a couple of truth serums for them to use during interrogations." 

Napoleon was sure there were a few other surprises in there as well. Illya was nothing if not thorough. They arrived at another door and a guard opened it for them. Illya glanced up at Napoleon, his eyes dancing. Napoleon took a look around but couldn't see right off the bat what had Illya all worked up. They waited for Jim and Artie to catch up to them.

Then, Illya took them around the corner and there it was. The Wanderer. In all its restored glory, part of a Secret Service display. The look on Jim and Artie's face was a wonder to behold, and Napoleon wanted to take Illya back around the corner and kiss him senseless. Instead, after making sure the guard had gone back to his post on the other side of the door, he wrapped his arms around his lover from the back, kissing the golden hair. "Have I told you today that I absolutely adore you?" he asked softly.

Illya shook his head, his eyes on Jim and Artie, his body all Napoleon's. As he moved, his hair tickled Napoleon's nose.

"I do. Madly," Napoleon assured him.

Illya teased him by rubbing his delectable ass against Napoleon's groin.

"We may be rechristening the bed again tonight," Napoleon warned him with a bitten off groan.

Illya grinned up at him, then spoke to Jim and Artie. "All the dates have been removed just for today, so you can read anything you want. And you can also go inside. After all, it was yours."

Artie's eyes were suspiciously bright as the first thing he did, after hearing Illya's words, was to head for the steps that would take them into the train.

"We'll be over here," Napoleon called, waving vaguely in the opposite direction. "We'll be at least a half an hour." With that he tugged Illya in that direction. He wanted to let Artie and Jim have some time to themselves and, even more importantly, to find a quiet corner where he could show Illya just how much he adored him.

* * *

Jim stayed close to Artie as he climbed the steps and within seconds they were inside. "James, it's our home."

It felt like home. Or as close to home as they could get in 1980. Jim was overwhelmed with the gift, even if it was only theirs for a short time. He headed toward the main room, astonished to find it so much the same. The wallpaper was different, and the fabric on the couch was a new shade, but other than that, it was so familiar.

"I was almost afraid to come in," Artie confessed. "I was afraid it would look entirely different, that whoever used it after us would have redecorated it. I don't think I would have wanted to see that."

Jim picked up a brochure lying on the coffee table. It was about the Wanderer and--his eyebrows went up--about them. "Artie, no one used it after us. They retired it when we retired."

Artie sank down on the couch. "Oh, I'm glad. I know it's a waste, but I'm terribly glad to hear that. It really does make it ours, then."

Jim kept reading. "It's been on exhibit in California in an historical museum there. That's where we retire." He held the flyer up to the light.

"What is it?"

Jim smiled ruefully. "Illya had someone cross off the dates of our death. I know I didn't want to know, but it's strange that all that stands between me and knowing is a few strokes of a pen."

Artie picked up a second copy of the flyer and smiled as he read: "This exhibit is dedicated to all the Secret Service men and women who have served this country." He looked around the room. "It's nice to think that we've been remembered this way. As a memorial to all our brothers and sisters to the cause."

Jim poked his nose into the small kitchen area. "Odd to think we'll be back here on Sunday, without, I might add, all the conveniences of a modern kitchen."

Artie stood and moved to join Jim, resting an arm across his shoulders. "But it will have our bed and our clothes and our belongings."

"Speaking of beds," Jim said with a grin. They both headed down the hallway, opening up the door to the room they shared. It looked as if they'd left it yesterday. Dingier, yes, the years having taken their toll on the linens, but all there. Jim sat down on the bed.

Artie joined him and grimaced. "I've grown soft. Too accustomed to those new-fangled mattresses of Napoleon and Illya's."

Jim laced his fingers through Artie's. "If you're in it, I don't much care what I'm sleeping on."

Leaning in, Artie kissed Jim. "A fine sentiment, James." His eyes twinkled. "But I expect you'll be doing your share of complaining when we're sleeping here again."

Jim let out a laugh. "I'm sure you're already working on ways to improve our bed, along with a thousand other things."

Artie chuckled. "I am at that." He glanced at the door. "As tempted as I am to remain here, shall we investigate the rest of it?"

Jim was tempted as well, but Napoleon had said they'd only be gone for half an hour and the first time Jim had Artie back in this bed, he planned to take a lot longer than that to welcome him home. He nodded and helped Artie up, following him out the door and down the hall to Artie's lab.

Artie spent a few minutes opening drawers and checking out his journals. His brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Jim asked, perched on a stool.

"It's very odd. I can see that time has passed and new things have been invented, but I don't see anything that would tell me that we had spent two months in the future learning unimaginable secrets."

"Nothing?" 

Artie shook his head. "Nothing. Everything here looks familiar to me, more advanced, but familiar. I would think, even if we kept it to ourselves, that I'd see something that represented our new knowledge." He flipped through a journal and displayed it. "There's nothing in here about our trip to the future."

Jim got up and headed back down the hall to where he kept his weapons. When he started looking through what was there, he came to the same conclusion Artie had. It appeared he had done nothing with all he'd learned. He stared at the revolver in his hand. "Do you suppose," he asked when he saw Artie had joined him, "that the machine sends us back to before we get taken by Loveless, so we don't get captured and don't get sent through the ring, so we never really go?" 

"I don't know." Artie moved back to the bedroom, started opening drawers. "Is it possible imposters live out the rest of our lives there, and we end up staying here?" He shut the last drawer. "Nothing. None of the things I was planning to bring back with us."

"Maybe we kept it all someplace else," Jim suggested. "Someplace safer, on the off-chance someone broke into the train, or took it all with us when we retired." It made sense. More sense than there being nothing to remind them of their journey.

"Maybe," Artie said. He sat on the bed again. "Very odd."

"What are you thinking?"

"That it's more proof that Time takes care of things. That it won't let itself be thwarted."

A shiver went down Jim's spine. "As long as it gets us home," he said. "I want our lives back, and I want to grow old with you and retire and make wine."

"And make love," Artie added, pulling Jim closer, kissing him hungrily.

A throat clearing made him pull away and he glanced up to see Napoleon and Illya doing their best not to grin. 

"Should we go away again?" Napoleon inquired teasingly.

Jim was tempted to say yes, but he shook his head no. They'd have all night, and God willing, a long life of kissing ahead.

* * *

Dinner Saturday night was a quiet affair. Artie wasn't quite sure how to feel. Glad to leave, sorry to go. Looking forward to his own bed, but loathe to leave this inordinately comfortable one. Enjoying the prospect of seeing old friends, knowing he would be leaving the best friends he and Jim had ever had. Would ever have. And leaving meant they'd never see them again. Probably. 

He grinned at that. What did he know about life? Who would have thought they'd ever meet once, let alone twice. Artie picked up his wine glass. "To the best of friends, to beating the odds, and to love."

There was an enthusiastic, "To love," and glasses clinked together.

"We'll miss you," Illya said morosely. "I've gotten used to having you here."

Jim grinned. "But now you can let the security go and get back to your in-depth plans for getting Napoleon in and out of the apartment every day."

Illya brightened at his words.

They sat there in silence for a few moments, then his and Illya's communicators went off at the same time. They excused themselves and headed downstairs to the control room.

Jim took another sip of his wine, looking at Artie. It was likely they would have the evening to themselves. Usually when their hosts got called away, whatever they were dealing with took hours.

"What should we do for the evening?" Artie asked, his eyes a mixture of mischief and sorrow. 

There was an obvious answer, of course. Spend their last night in bed, loving each other, just in case tomorrow's exercise tore them apart. But Jim wasn't ready for bed. Wasn't ready to do something that really meant it was their last night. Once they fell asleep, when they woke up, they'd have to say goodbye and then somehow summon the faith to purposely jump through that ring, a machine his arch-nemesis created, certainly with no good in mind.

They stared at each other for a while, and Jim knew they were thinking alike in this, as in so many other things. They might not even make love tonight, choosing instead to savor their last night in the twentieth century, having no way of knowing if they'd even be alive when the year turned from 1899 to 1900. 

"How about a little music?" Artie suggested, answering his own question. 

Jim nodded, and after helping Artie clear the table, they moved to the living room and Artie selected an album, putting it on the stereo. Music from a jazz quartet filled the air. Moving to the windows, Artie pulled open the curtains, revealing the extraordinary view of New York City sparkling with lights. 

They both stood there for a few minutes, drinking it in. Then, as if choreographed, they moved into each other's arms and slowly began to dance the evening away.

* * *

"Maybe you two should leave," Artie said, glancing at the cave walls and ceiling.

"This part of the cave held up last time," Illya said. "We should be safe enough." He and Napoleon were standing close to the machine.

"But the rest of it caved in. How will you get out?"

"It's been reinforced," Illya argued. "It should hold. I need to be here in case something goes wrong."

Artie sighed. It was true that this room had gone largely unscathed last time, but it didn't mean it would this time. But between Jim's removal of all the dynamite and the improvements Illya spoke of, it was, Artie supposed, as safe as it was going to get.

Napoleon and Illya looked tired. Artie wasn't sure they'd gotten any sleep last night. Not that he and Jim had fared better. They'd napped a little but had been awake to watch the last sunrise in their temporary home.

"I don't know how to say goodbye," Artie said. "I wish we didn't have to." 

Illya shook his head. "Then don't. We may yet see each other again. Our paths do seem destined to cross."

"Besides," Napoleon said with a strained grin, "you owe me money and a case of your wine."

Jim smiled, but Artie could tell his heart wasn't in it. Even the lure of their own home and their own bed couldn't wipe the sorrow of the moment away.

Squaring his shoulders, Artie nodded. "Then this will simply be a farewell. And a thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"From both of us," Jim added.

"You're welcome. Glad we could return the favor." Napoleon grinned. "Drop in anytime."

Illya turned on the power. The bank of lights lit up, and the larger box started humming. "You should both jump at the same time, I think, just in case it decides to act up. I'd hate to end up with one of you here and one of you there."

Artie moved closer to Jim, and felt Jim lace his fingers tightly with his. Artie squeezed back, glad to feel Jim's touch as they took this next step in their adventure. With the exception of Artie's shirt which hadn't survived his accident, they'd dressed in the clothes they'd come in. They both had bags slung over their shoulders filled with goodies from Illya and Napoleon. 

There was a rumbling throughout the cave. Then, the ring lit up and a mist began forming in the place of what had seemed to be hard rock. Another rumbling was heard, and the ground trembled. Not much, but enough to worry Artie. "I think you two should go."

  
Even as he spoke the words, he knew they were falling on deaf ears. Or at least Illya's ears were deaf. Napoleon was looking around with a frown. Illya was watching the ring with that focused look that Artie had come to recognize as intense concentration. It would take an explosion to get his attention.

Several things happened at once. With a loud concussive noise, an arc of lightning flew from one end of the ring to the other. Another rumbling was heard, and the ground shifted again, enough to make them all stumble. And then with an ear-splitting noise, the mist that had been occluding sight of the rock wall was replaced by the shimmering circle Jim had spoken of.

"That's it," Jim yelled over the din.

Artie tried to figure out where the noise was coming from, realizing with horror that the cave was starting to collapse. "Napoleon, Illya, run!"

Too late. A huge chunk of rock came down, hitting Illya on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground and falling on his legs. The pain on his face paralyzed Artie. 

Napoleon ran to Illya, trying to move the rock, proving unsuccessful. More rocks began to fall. Artie made as if to move in their direction to help but Napoleon waved him back. "Go. Go now!"

Artie glanced at Jim, saw the same indecision on his face.

A rock glanced off the ring, and the shimmering circle faltered, then grew in strength again.

Napoleon was sheltering Illya with his body as more rocks began to fall. "Go," he yelled again. "We won't be able to rebuild it. Don't make this be for nothing."

Artie caught a glimpse of Illya's face, and he looked dangerously still. Blood on his face. Blood on Napoleon's hands. He had to help. He couldn't just leave them.

"Please," Napoleon begged. "Go."

More large rocks were starting to fall, and one hit Napoleon on the back. There was an audible snap, and Napoleon let out a cry, falling over Illya.

Tears streaming down his face, Artie turned to Jim. He was incapable of making a decision. Jim made it for them. He grabbed Artie hard and yanked him to the ring, jumping, his strong grasp pulling Artie with him. As Artie hit the probability horizon, it seemed as if the entire cavern exploded. Then they were hitting the ground hard, Jim cushioning his fall by landing first so Artie could land on him. 

Artie jumped to his feet, a small part of him glad he was in one piece, but most of his heart was still in that cave. "Are they dead? Did we kill them?" He didn't think he could bear that. "Oh, God, James. What have we done?"

Jim found his feet, looking as shaken as Artie felt. "I don't know." He looked around. "I don't know." He rubbed at his face, and when he pulled his hand away, there was blood on it.

Artie moved to him, investigating, saw a cut where a rock must have hit. That was when he noticed that their bags hadn't made it through with them. He knew his had been on his shoulder, was reasonably certain Jim had been carrying his as well. "Our bags are gone."

Jim looked around to confirm. "Maybe we couldn't come back with anything we didn't take with us."

That was a price Artie was willing to pay. But if Time's price for making things right was Napoleon and Illya's lives, it was too steep a one. "Jim," Artie said painfully.

Jim held him tightly. "I know."

There was some comfort to be had in the knowledge they were together, but it was not enough. "We have to do something."

Jim nodded against his shoulder. He pulled back. "First we need to figure out where we are. Then we'll figure out what to do."

Artie tried to pull himself together, having a difficult time ridding his mind's eye of Illya's too-still face and the crack of bone when that large rock had hit Napoleon's back. He watched Jim stride off a few yards. Jim pointed. "The cave's over here."

Artie joined him and they walked together to the cave. The entrance was sealed off by rock fall. Jim crouched down, leaned against one of the rocks. "This just happened. I can still feel the vibration."

Glancing around, Artie almost expected to see the U.N.C.L.E. helicopter. But he could tell they weren't when they'd been. The air smelled different, and there were many more trees. "Did we get home?" Maybe Loveless and his gang were making their escape as he and Jim stood there. Artie couldn't find it in himself to care. Let them go.

Jim shrugged. "I don't know. I won't know until we hit a town." He pointed north. "I think Exeter's closer than Cooperstown." 

Artie nodded, heartsick. 

Silently, they started walking. Artie was afraid he'd weep if he opened his mouth and attempted to speak. It wasn't until they climbed a hill and looked down on the small and well-remembered town of Exeter that Jim spoke. "I think we're home."

Artie wished he could relish the feeling.

Jim suddenly snapped his fingers. "Artie, we can send them a letter. Remember? They already told us we sent them one."

Artie's brain felt like mush. "What? What do you mean?"

"A letter. I'll write them a letter, tell them what happened. They can keep you from getting hurt, and we can tell them they can't be in the cave. We can keep it from happening. It hasn't happened yet."

"It hasn't happened yet," Artie repeated, feeling like Jim was speaking a foreign language.

"It happens to them in 1980. It's only 1875." 

It was starting to sink in. Artie's broken heart began to mend. "We can write them and keep them safe."

Jim grinned, nodding. "We can keep them safe."

"James," Artie said, tears in his eyes. "I like the way you think."

Jim's grin grew brighter. "Come on, let's go home."

* * *

It took them two days, but finally they were on the train. Artie sank back on the sofa and relaxed. A memory teased him, and he chased after it. When he found it, he let out a gasp. "Jim," he hollered.

Jim raced into the parlor. "What?" He looked around for danger.

"I'm forgetting. I'd almost forgotten we'd seen the Wanderer in that museum. I think this is why we didn't find any trace of our trip here--because we forget it all."

Jim sank down next to Artie. "Why? Why would we forget?"

  
"Because it hasn't happened. All those things we saw, and all those things we learned, none of it has happened yet."

Looking frustrated, Jim stood up and paced across the room. "I don't want to forget."

"Me, either." Artie's eyes opened wide. "Jim, the letter. We have to write the letter now before we forget."

A look of consternation crossed Jim's face, and he moved quickly to the desk, yanking out paper, a pen and some ink. As if truly racing against time, the pen scribbled furiously across the paper, filling it up. 

Fortunately, they were still in New York State, so finding a Western Union office would be easy enough. Artie grabbed a piece of paper and wrote himself a note telling him what they were doing just in case they forgot on the way into town. He tested his memory. The old ones of Napoleon and Illya being here were still crystal clear, but the new ones of himself and Jim in the future were fading. 

Sealing the envelope, Jim quickly wrote Napoleon's address on the front. "When did we get there? What day?"

Artie shook his head. "I have no idea."

Jim shot him a rueful look. "Sorry, you wouldn't. You were out of it for a few days." He closed his eyes, his brow furrowed. "God, it's so hard to remember." 

"If it helps, I remember it was September," Artie said. "Around the middle of the month."

"It does help." Jim thought about it a few more moments. "It was the nineteenth." He scrawled across the envelope: To be delivered, September 18th, 1980. "Let's hope Western Union comes through again." He grabbed his hat, and Artie grabbed his, settling it on his head, and they both headed for the door.

* * *

Illya was yawning at the breakfast table when there was a knock on the door. Napoleon met him there, both of them with guns in hand. Napoleon peered through the peek hole. "Who is it?"

"Western Union." 

Illya's eyebrows went up. "Could it be?" The last time they’d received something from Western Union it had been a letter from Jim and Artie shortly after Illya and Napoleon had returned home after their visit to the past. "Open the door."

"It could be from THRUSH."

"Pretending to be Western Union?" Illya found that unlikely.

Napoleon flashed him a disgruntled frown but, concealing his gun, he shut off the alarm and opened the door. Another young man stood there, looking suspiciously like the man who had made the last delivery fourteen years before. Napoleon signed for the envelope, gave the man a large tip to make him go away, shut the door, locking and alarming it.

He opened the outer envelope, pulling out another smaller one, brittle with age. Napoleon frowned at it. "This was supposed to have been delivered yesterday."

Illya rolled his eyes, relieving Napoleon of the envelope. "Seeing as we're talking one hundred years, one day can't matter that much." He carefully opened the envelope, pulling out the single letter. As he read, he changed his mind, cursing Western Union and their lazy ways. 

"What is it?" Napoleon asked. 

Illya felt him move behind him, reading over his shoulder. He held it up so he could see it better. "Och," Illya said with a hiss. "They do not say what time they will be arriving." He handed the letter to Napoleon. "I must get dressed."

"Why?" Napoleon called after him.

"We have traffic to stop."

Napoleon followed him, still reading. "Today? Jim and Artie are dropping by today?"

"Apparently this Dr. Loveless of theirs sends them on a free vacation," Illya said, his voice muffled as he slipped on a turtleneck. He glanced up from zipping his pants to find Napoleon had finished up the letter.

"So, we will go stop traffic?" Illya asked.

"Yes," Napoleon said. "We will go stop traffic." He slipped on his shoes and leaned in to kiss Illya. "And we will keep you alive."

"And you."

"And me."

"Other than stopping traffic, it sounds like every other day," Illya said with a grin. Every day Illya went to bed with both of them healthy and alive, was a good day. In their business, one learned never to take life for granted.

"Then stopping traffic will make this day one for the diary then," Napoleon said. "Of course, it isn't every day we have someone from the eighteen-hundreds drop by for dinner."

"I will need a new diary."

"I'll buy you one of those with the little heart locket on it."

  
"Do that, and I'll have to kill you," Illya threatened.

Napoleon sighed theatrically then pulled out his communicator. "While you're figuring out how to get us out of here today, I better call and have someone meet us there with cones and sawhorses so we can close off the street."

"You know where we are going, then?"

Napoleon nodded. "There's a great Chinese food restaurant right around the corner." He started chatting with Jennifer, giving her orders.

Illya decided they'd go through the bakery. They hadn't gone that way in a long time.

* * *

Illya and Napoleon watched from outside the cave as it collapsed with a furor. Napoleon winced. "Glad we weren't inside."

"Very glad." 

"Do you think it worked? Do you think they got home?" Napoleon hated to think that maybe it hadn't, that Jim and Artie were buried underneath tons of rock. "Should we excavate the cave and make sure?"

Illya shook his head. "If they're in there, they're dead. I will see if we still have the letter from them, and if they are still in our database as having died as opposed to having gone missing."

Odd to think the letter might be gone when they got back. "I still remember getting the letter. If they never sent it, wouldn't we forget we got it? How fast would things change if they didn't get back?"

"I don't know." Illya pursed his lips in thought. "I suppose if things begin to seem different, then I will figure out a way to make the THRUSH device work, and we will go back and warn them. Keep them out of Loveless' clutches all together."

"I think we should go visit them anyway," Napoleon said. "If you can get that other thing working, we can go visit them after they've retired, go see their vineyard. Bring home a few bottles."

"I still remember getting both letters," Illya noted. "But, technically, we don't need to get that second letter, because that past didn't happen." 

"As much as I enjoyed having Artie and Jim staying with us while you pieced that machine together, I won't miss having these conversations."

"You were the one who just suggested we go back to 1895 for our Christmas holiday," Illya said snidely.

"Well, wouldn't you like to see them again?" Napoleon challenged.

"Of course." 

"There you go. California for the holidays."

"Eighty-five years ago."

"Details, Illya, details." Napoleon considered the destruction before him. "It's odd to think that we've done all this before."

"Who knows how many times we've done it. Perhaps we keep playing these same weeks over and over again."

"As long as we keep getting to christen the downstairs master suite, I'm okay with that," Napoleon said with a grin, raking Illya with a heated look.

Illya grinned back, but then he frowned. "If we do it again, maybe we can keep THRUSH from stealing the helicopter."

* * *

Artie and Jim lay in bed on the Wanderer. "Do you remember anything anymore?" Artie asked, his hand running up and down Jim's naked back. He supposed it was an unfair question to ask. After an orgasm like the one he'd just had, he wasn't sure he remembered his name.

"Barely. I remember how busy the city was, and that Illya and Napoleon looked older, but it's fading."

"Think we'll see them again?"

Jim shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so. If we do, I hope we remember it."

"I still remember them when they came here. I guess that's because it happened to us, here in our own time."

Jim turned his head and kissed Artie's chin. "I'll take memory loss any day over what was happening to Illya and Napoleon when they came here. I think we got off easy."

"Me, too." Artie punched at the pillow, vague memories of a more comfortable bed plaguing him. "Any word on Loveless?"

"No," Jim said. "Not a peep. He's gone into hiding for the time being." He grinned. "Wonder what he'll do when he sees us?"

"Have a tantrum and then try some other fiendish device out on us, no doubt. He seems to have a never-ending supply," Artie said, pulling Jim in tighter, as if by doing so he could somehow keep him safe from the evil in the world. He ignored the fact that Jim needed protection less than any other man he knew. All Artie knew was that he couldn't bear to think of his life without Jim by his side. "As long as we're together," Artie whispered.

"We will be," Jim said. "I don't know how I know that, but we'll be together, Artie, until the very end."

Artie heard the utter conviction in Jim's voice and allowed it to seep into his heart, spreading contentment like a warm breeze through his body. "That's all I need, James." He reached down for the blanket and pulled it up to cover their entangled bodies. As he fell asleep, he could have sworn he heard a jazz quartet playing in the distance.

The End


End file.
